


The Truth Untold

by grabthefish



Series: The Aoki Files [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Anal, Canon Compliant, Fingering, First Time, Graphic Depictions of Feelings, M/M, Surprise Honesty, Surprise Sex, and arise like a phoenix from the flame, and not the masturbatory kind, blowjob, built on the back of introspection, burn the past to the ground, details and call-backs and call-backs and details, earth-shaking emotions, graphic depictions of sex, learning self-love, moving forward, so many feelings, surprise epiphany, surprise visitor, typical in-character dickishness, very mild D/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: Shawn has sex; Carlton has an epiphany.ORTwo smart men are stupidly in love.





	The Truth Untold

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written over the course of a month and then edited in about the same amount of time. It is my first foray into present tense and without my editor, redwolffclaw, I would have been lost, so thanks to her and her beautiful brain. I hope you love this story as much as I do, and if you have a favorite line (or two), I would love to hear it in the comments. Happy reading!
> 
> Based off [The Truth Untold](https://open.spotify.com/track/48XfojJC87VKLlUotYV0Gm) by BTS & Steve Aoki

* * *

Carlton knows Shawn Spencer isn’t psychic. He’s known it from the second he laid eyes on the lying scoundrel. Since the moment the charlatan first opened his mouth. And though it's a begrudging awareness, he's also known for almost as long that whatever Spencer is, he is brilliant. And charismatic. And fun.

All things he _isn’t._

Carlton has had to work hard to get where he is. Clawed tooth and nail to get to the top, putting in long days and longer nights of studying to graduate with honors, none of it coming to him as naturally as he would’ve liked. He gave up any semblance of a personal life, his marriage included, to get the rank of Head Detective - Santa Barbara’s youngest ever.

Carlton is smart. But not smart enough for it to matter.

Not smart enough for anyone to care.

Especially not with Spencer around, to whom everything comes as easy as breathing.

As to being charming? You couldn’t pay someone to call Carlton charming.

Charisma has never been his strong suit, so he’s never considered it part of his personal or professional tool box. Why bother? He hadn’t become a cop to be liked, after all, and rarely cared that there were few he could truly call ‘friend’. Some days he was honestly surprised he had any, soberingly aware of how hostile his demeanor could come across. But after dealing with the shit he dealt with on a regular basis, at the end of the day he was out to make himself happy, no one else. If others didn’t like that, if they were weirded out by his Clint Eastwood fixation or his love for historical re-enactment or his stellar skee-ball skills, that was their problem, not his.

What _was_ his problem was that for as long as he’d seen Shawn Spencer for what he truly was – a cocky, foolhardy, stubborn little shit, not only obnoxious but overly competent in an irritatingly _in_ competent kind of way - he’d also been attracted to the man. And as long as he’d been attracted to the man, Carlton had forced his desire back down again, hiding it behind a façade of normalcy, or at least what passed for it in his world: being the straight, going on middle-aged, no-nonsense, recently divorced Head Detective society saw him as.

But the mask was getting harder to wear.

Around Spencer, almost impossible.

He’d laughed at the man’s joke earlier that day – something stupid and 80’s-related, nothing particularly witty but a quip that struck Carlton’s funny bone just right. And apparently that was so out of character for him that everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned their attention his way, Spencer’s gaze boring a hole straight through him.

It was charged, that gaze was. But before he’d had a chance to figure out what with – before Spencer had taken the opportunity to open his mouth and ruin the moment - Carlton had fled, flying into the nearest interrogation room to collect himself.

To chastise himself.

Spencer isn’t funny. He _isn’t._ And even if he is, Carlton can’t allow himself the luxury of reacting that way. Because if he does, Spencer might notice. He might notice that the man Carlton tries to be is not who he _is._ Might notice that there’s something so much deeper inside him than what he lets show.

Might try to pry his way in.

Shawn might notice that Carlton wants him almost as much as he wants to be Chief of Police.

Needs him almost as much as he needs oxygen to live.

Carlton got over the fact that he’s not quite as heterosexual as he claims to be a long time ago. He likes to think of himself more hetero _flexible_  than anything. He’s never had sex with a man – never experienced anything more than a few clumsy kisses and a late-night drunken grope in a closet in college (and that one time he drunkenly made out with Tom the Evidence Tech at the department-wide picnic, of course) – but he’s wanted to, though the urge has been few and far between and not at all since he’d gotten married.

Well…

But it’s never happened. It _hasn’t_ – not outside his dreams, anyhow. So, though it’s been a desire of his for some time and his track record with women hasn’t been the greatest, he sticks to the female persuasion when it comes to courting partners. If he’s going to fail in the romance department, after all, he might as well wear the shame he already knows.

Spencer, though… Spencer makes him reconsider.

Makes him curious about what it would be like and as to whether the flight would be worth the fall.

Every time his finds his fingers on the nape of the man’s neck as he drags him from an active crime scene…

Every time he towers over the psychic, their bodies a hairsbreadth away from being pressed against each other…

Every time Shawn straddles his desk, legs splayed open, one on each side of Carlton’s to trap him in place – Spencer’s haunting hazel eyes cutting straight through to his core, wordlessly suggesting that he knows something Carlton doesn’t want to admit…

Many times, Carlton has pictured what he would do to the psychic if ever he had the chance. What he would do _with_ the psychic, the desire always reciprocated in his fantasies, though he’s sure it never would be in real life.

It doesn’t matter that Spencer puts his hands all over him.

Doesn’t matter that he shoots him indecipherable glances.

Doesn’t matter that he calls him pet names.

Not when he undermines him at every turn.

Not when he steals his thunder and makes him look a fool.

Not when he says the things he says to Carlton’s partner.

Sometimes, on days like today, after a long morning made longer by a hard case and a hellacious afternoon made even more difficult by Spencer’s mixed signals, Carlton imagines himself pulling Shawn into the very interrogation room he’d fled to. Imagines slamming him up against a wall and snarling in his ear to either put out or get out, so sick and tired is he of the psychic’s games. And instead of running, tail tucked between his legs, he pictures Spencer licking his lips. Not his own, but _Carlton’s_ , the shorter man carting his body upwards as he calls him out on calling his bluff, capturing the cop’s mouth and kissing him as if his life depends on it – tongue and teeth and passion and fury, like he’s daring Carlton to stop him all the while knowing that he never will.

But now… now he has Spencer beneath him, the psychic on his knees on the cold hardwood floor, looking up expectantly with his mouth open and his hand on Carlton’s button-fly as he waits for permission the detective is somehow still stupidly reluctant to give.

He’s not sure how they got here. Not sure why he’d opened the door in the dead of the night, nor why he’d allowed Spencer to invade his personal space, the man stepping over the threshold of his home and heart and mind with a single step and a single word, the look in his eyes and rasp of his voice as he uttered Carlton’s name short-circuiting his brain.

Carlton had come home late and Shawn had shown up later, the clock having struck midnight at least an hour past. He’d opened the door expecting to tell the man off but was silenced with a stare as Spencer dropped to his knees without another sound, his fox-like face pressed against the crotch of Carlton’s flannel pajama pants as he breathed the cop in and kicked the door closed behind him.

Shawn looks up at him from beneath too-long lashes and Carlton is half convinced that he’s dreaming. And if he’s dreaming, then nothing matters. And if nothing matters, then all that matters is this. Is _them_. So he cards his hand through Shawn’s all-too-real hair and whispers ‘do it’, his heart catching in his throat when the psychic slides the fabric down his hips and mouths at his rapidly hardening erection, plump lips pinkening with every motion.

Carlton groans, a combination of arousal and his brain trying to reboot itself – trying to make sense of what is happening and how it’s probably a bad idea and how nothing is ever going to be the same again.

How Spencer’s mouth is hot and wet and needy on him and he’s never even had the chance to kiss the man.

How very badly he’s always wanted to kiss the man.

“Spencer,” he hisses as Shawn slides his mouth further down his length, head bobbing beneath the cop’s slackening hand, there mostly to make sure he isn’t actually dreaming. That he really is awake, and this really is happening.

Shawn hums, not a song but a sound of approval, his jaw loosening as he presses his nose to Carlton’s pubic bone, eyes twinkling with delight when the cop surges forward.

Queen starts playing on the radio then, left on from before Spencer had interrupted his evening in. And if he wasn’t so deliciously distracted, if he wasn’t so enamored with this almost-miracle, Carlton would laugh, Freddie’s message so loud and so clear.

_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_

Carlton knows he is broken inside. Knows that he shut out the world for far too long. Let life’s hardships crush him when they should have made him stronger. He’s aware that he hasn’t been the same since Victoria left, a man not living but surviving on the fumes of what his future was supposed to be. He’s pretty sure it’s part of the reason he’s been attracted to Spencer for as long as he has in the first place – the psychic living his own life so fully you’d think he was in IMAX, his very existence exploding onto the screen in supersonic surround-sound.

Even while he’s being annoying, Shawn makes Carlton’s life bright again. He’s a splash of color in a world so cold and grey, even if that color only comes in shades of lies. And Carlton knows, he _knows_ that they’re lies even when they’re being said to his face. Even though he sometimes wishes they were true.

Carlton knows that Spencer isn’t psychic. That he’s not as much of an extrovert as he pretends to be. That he couldn’t possibly be interested, no matter how much he flirts.

No matter how intense the feeling of his mouth on Carlton’s skin.

And Carlton _knows_ that he should feel bad for using him like he does. For acting like a psychic vampire and deriving all his joy from the very fact of Shawn’s existence. From their verbal sparring and physical altercations and the far too many times they’ve wound up all over each other under the guise of not-quite friendly confrontation, when really, he’s been half a step away from getting his emotional rocks off this whole time.

But he can’t.

Not when he’s now using him like this, too.

How vulnerable – how _shaken_ \- must he be that he’s letting Shawn do this to him? That he let Spencer barge into his house and demolish his well thought out delusions? With a single glance, just completely shatter everything he’s worked so hard to keep himself safe with, his finely crafted façade lying in tatters on the floor?

He let Shawn barge into his house and wrap his mouth around his dick and his dreams and his very _being_ , no explanation or discussion to be had. No chance to work it out or make it make sense or even turn the man down.

But how could he say no to his fantasy turned reality, Spencer staring up at him from his knees, silently begging him for god knows what?

_Fuck._

Carlton is sure this proves that he’s fucked in the head for allowing this to happen. They both are. And even though he’s in the process of getting his dick sucked, he’s mad. Mad at Spencer and mad at himself and just fucking _pissed_ that the mask he wears is going to have to get stronger. Thicker. Be nearly painted on just so he can push the psychic away once he’s done whatever the hell it is he thinks he’s doing.

Carlton doesn’t know why he’s here, nor does he know why the psychic is on his knees swallowing him whole. But he does know it can’t happen again. It can’t, because it shouldn’t be happening _now_. And the fact is, it’s going to fuck up absolutely everything in Carlton’s life, no matter how good it feels.

 _Because_ of how good it feels.

He’s aware he’s going to want this again. It’s going to stick to his memory like white on rice, like an adhesive stronger than super-glue – no chance of scrubbing it off no matter how hard he tries. He’s going to feel it in his blood every time he looks at the man; in his blood and in his bones and in his head and heart and soul - not the physical sensations he’s experiencing now but the emotional ones.

It’s the feeling of being wanted that’s going to mess with him most.

The feeling of being needed.

Even though those feelings are false.

He’s going to have to temper himself. Going to have to pull himself further out of the reluctant circle of friendship that had formed between the four of them – Spencer and Guster and O’Hara and himself, an unlikely group but one that somehow seems to work. Or _seemed_ to, rather, because there is no way it can continue to function now that Spencer’s mouth has been on his genitals.

No way _he_ can continue to function.

But Shawn burns hot while Carlton runs cold. He’s the spark that lights his fire and makes him nearly combust. Makes him remember what life was like in the times of before – when he was just Carlton J. Lassiter, son of Mona, brother of Lauren. When he wasn’t a failed husband or an ornery Head Detective or anything else that he’d become along the way.

When he was just him and all that mattered was how he felt.

And how he felt then is _nothing_ compared to how he feels right now. Spencer’s mouth is trying to melt through him like he’s sure his words would cause winter-freeze, but he needs to somehow use his to tongue to please, the slick and slippery muscle tracing the veins of Carlton’s cock almost as if he’s spelling out unspoken promises of love and devotion into the cop’s flesh.

He's not, of course.

He can’t be.

Knowing Spencer, it’s mockery; he’s scripting out the words he’ll say to emasculate Carlton like he always does.

Knowing Spencer, this is just one more thing he’ll hold against him – the overly logical detective failing to use logic to figure out _this_.

Carlton Lassiter: SPBD’s Head Queer, he’ll be if Spencer spills the beans. It doesn’t matter that the psychic would be outing himself in the process. Everybody loves him, and nobody would care. But Carlton has a reputation to uphold and he can only imagine Spencer getting his jollies by dangling that reputation-damaging piece of information over his head. It will sit there, like a super-gay sword of Damocles, ready to impale him at any time.

Except worse, it’s a super-gay-for- _Shawn_ sword of Damocles.

_Jesus._

Carlton doesn’t know what would be harder for him to bear: a homosexual encounter being broadcast around the bullpen or the fact that it’s happening with Spencer, the man he’d spent so long antagonizing and manhandling and putting in his place finally putting him in _his_.

It has the potential to be career-ending, the little respect he has from his colleagues likely to dissipate the second the news is spread.

Mind you, Carlton’s personal life is nobody’s business but his own and if somebody says something, there’s nothing stopping him from shrugging his shoulders and telling them he just proved Spencer’s the little cocksucker he’s always said he was.

He never would, of course.

Carlton might be mean but he’s not _cruel_. And while he wants to believe Spencer is sucking him off to gain some sort of twisted leverage over him, the soft needy sounds the psychic makes - the desperation in the way he moves and the feeling of his hand as it grips Carlton’s hip and how his mouth slides down him effortlessly, almost as if he can’t get enough – makes him realize that whatever this is, it’s possible that it might not be a game. And if it _is_ , it’s likely that the rulebook was not only written upside down and backwards but probably got set on fire and thrown out the damn window the second he let Spencer in.

Either way, it’s all foreign to him. As is the look on Shawn’s face and the one Carlton knows he wears on his own, the bare and blatant adoration taking him aback.

He’s close. His orgasm is building like an intense storm, thunder and lightning crashing through him as he tries to hold onto his thoughts. Tries to hold onto _anything_. But any sense of reason was lost the moment he opened that door. The moment Spencer fell into the subservient position he’d been aching for him to be in for years. And, almost as if he can sense the end is near, Shawn pulls off, the gleam in his eyes mischievous, his fingers trailing up Carlton’s inner thigh as he exhales -

“Fuck me, Lassie.”

He’s pretty sure that’s what he hears Spencer say. His blood is pounding in his ears – what isn’t pooled in his groin, of course – and though he can’t tear his eyes away from the flush on the man’s cheeks, he tries to convince himself that he is mistaken. That Spencer doesn’t want that, _can’t_ want that. Because a blowjob is a blowjob, but there is no rhyme nor reason for _this_.

It just… it doesn’t fall into his world view.

Doesn’t make sense with the story that he’s written in his head.

Except…

“I need you to fuck me, Lassie. I need it - I need you,” the psychic says, tripping over his tongue as he speaks, trying to sound confident and failing.

Except that maybe Shawn wants him just as bad as he wants Shawn.

And maybe this is his way of finally working around the bullshit between them.

The psychic keeps talking then, words falling from his mouth almost faster than Carlton can understand them, like he’s afraid this will stop if he doesn’t say the right thing quick enough.

But Carlton isn’t really listening.

He’s watching the way the man’s mouth moves, not caring if what’s coming out of it is lies or truth. He’s focused on the feeling of cold air on his spit-slicked skin and the way his heart is racing in his chest and how he can’t hear for the blood rushing in his ears. But he also doesn’t care to, the fantasy having all the potential in the world to be shattered by reality.

Spencer’s mouth looks warm and inviting. And Carlton knows, he _knows_ it’s not the only part of him that is. He hasn’t been there yet, but Shawn wants him to and _god_ , how is he supposed to deal with that?

Reason has abandoned him.

And because reason has abandoned him, he pulls the psychic to his feet in a crushing embrace, attacking that wicked and wily mouth like he’s always wanted to and deciding to forgo dealing altogether.

Shawn is surprised at first, which Carlton finds funny; someone begging to be fucked shouldn’t be startled when they get kissed, after all. But the thought doesn’t last long when Spencer’s surprise turns to enthusiasm and he wraps his arms around Carlton, clawing at his shoulder-blades as his tongue slides past the cop’s teeth.

His lips are soft, but strong. And to Carlton’s complete lack of surprise, Shawn tastes of pineapple smoothie. But it’s mixed with a flavor that’s undeniably his and now that he’s sampled it, Carlton knows he’s going to want more.

Going to want to devour Spencer whole.

Shawn presses his body against his like he’s trying to glue them together and Carlton bites at the psychic’s lower lip in return, reveling in the reverberation of the moan the man makes into his mouth. His hands are on Spencer’s ass and he has no idea how they got there, but he also doesn’t much care. Shawn is trying to climb him like he’s Mt. Lassiter, like he’s desperate to touch as much of the detective as he can, and the man’s weight as he throws his legs around Carlton’s waist makes him stumble back into the door.

They thud and Carlton can feel the knob against his spine, and he laughs at the impact.

He _laughs_.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that in a moment like this.

Doesn’t remember the last time he’s _had_ a moment like this.

Sex with Victoria was almost a chore, especially in the latter years. With Lucinda it was a torrid affair, quick and needy and always a little dirty. But this… this is forbidden in a way that wasn’t. Forbidden and _freeing_. Because even though it’s just begun, even though he has no idea what’s happening between them – what it means to Spencer or their relationship or how it will impact their lives outside of tonight - it’s not just about the sex.

It’s about finally being allowed to be who he is, if only for a night that will stay behind locked doors.

Whereas Victoria would have frowned and Lucinda would have misunderstood, Spencer is enthused by his reaction and rewards him with his mouth on his throat, sucking a clear sign of possession into his skin that he’ll need but refuse to explain - the psychic’s hand drifting down to thread through the soft springy hair of Carlton’s treasure trail as he mumbles into the barely-there stubble at the cop’s throat.

“God, I need you. Need you so bad.”

Carlton’s never heard anything more powerful in his life, almost whining and wheedling but laced with so much desire it makes him dizzy.

“Need you in me, Lass. Need to feel you everywhere. Need you _now._ ”

He can’t breathe.

It’s not the weight of the man atop him but the weight of what he’s just said that steals the breath from his very chest. The proclamation – the _declaration_ – is more than he could have ever hoped for and he wonders how he never noticed, the truth so clear now that it’s met his ears.

Shawn _needs_ Carlton.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, doesn’t know in what way or what it means, but…

What else is he to do with that information but throw him down and ravage him?

Carlton has no clue. So that’s exactly what he does – in a feat of impressive strength, he steps out of his pants and takes a tentative step forward. Then another. And then one more, moving until Spencer is flat on his back on the cool leather couch, the heat from the cop’s body having left it long ago.

Shawn is supine and his shirt – just one today, an act as out of character for him as Carlton’s laugh was earlier – is rucked up around his armpits. Carlton allows himself a moment to enjoy the sight and then his mouth latches onto the left nipple while his hand plays with the right, tugging and teasing and pulling and tweaking until Spencer is writhing beneath him, his own erection evident beneath his dark blue jeans.

“Lassssssiiiiiiiiie,” he breathes.

Moans.

Begs, his voice so thick with need he sounds like he might choke on it.

It hits Carlton like a shot of cheap tequila on an empty stomach. Makes his head swim and stomach twist and blood sing, warm and heady as it rushes right through him. Sends him reeling in the best possible way. And Shawn continues, making it somehow both better and worse.

“You’re such a fucking tease.”

He pauses, just long enough to suck a hit of lust-sweetened air between his teeth.

“Please don’t tease me, Lassie. _Please_.”

Carlton chuckles, his laugh open and free. He likes the way Spencer sounds when he begs. Wants to make him beg more – _intends_ to make him beg more. Places a bite at the base of the psychic’s throat as he growls his reply and loves the way Shawn quivers in response.

“Why the hell not, Spencer?”

Arousal is written all over Shawn’s face, longing so strong it takes him a moment to figure out how to speak. That he _can_ speak. And Carlton is proud of himself. Proud that he’s done almost nothing to this man, yet he’s found a way to render him speechless - a thing he’s been aiming for since what seems like the dawn of time and has only ever managed to achieve once.

“Because…”

The psychic is flustered, an occurrence as rare as a tornado of toads. And Carlton wants to remember the occasion – wants to mark it down in the history books and copy it like Memorex. He would print it and hang it if he could. Replace his wall of most wanted pictures with a framed photo of the way Spencer looks right now if it meant he’d get to start each day by remembering this moment and feeling this way.

If this is what abandoning his much beloved logic is like, Carlton wishes he had done so long ago.

“But I thought you liked teasing,” he says, nipping at Shawn’s collarbone with a smirk on his face, his interrogation voice mocking the man beneath him.

He knows Shawn loves that voice and it shows, the psychic’s face flush as the cop’s words cut through him.

As his _intent_ cuts through him.

Carlton’s hand is lower now. It’s left the nipple it was toying with and is fumbling with Spencer’s belt buckle, trying to divest the psychic of his jeans. Shawn’s hips tilt into the touch and he reaches down to help, but Carlton grabs his wrists and thrusts them above his head, pinning them to the couch with a glare he knows tells Spencer exactly what will happen to him if he doesn’t keep them there.

“You’ve been doing it to me for years,” he continues.

It’s true. And they both know it.

Spencer does it as often as he enters the station - more so, since that’s most of what he does while there. Possibly most of the reason he comes by in the first place. And Carlton’s starting to realize that it’s not because he’s trying to aggravate.

For Shawn, aggravation is his way of claiming attention.

He’s thrown himself in Carlton’s lap and danced around with his stomach exposed, fully aware of the cop’s barely-hidden lust-filled gaze as it tracked him across the room. He’s called him nicknames only a lover would utter and done so in a lover’s voice, the sotto voce syllables of Spencer’s insanity caressing Carlton’s brain and causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He’s antagonized him into action more times than the cop can count, Carlton’s strong moral code broken as he finds himself manhandling the man more than he does the most hardened of criminals.

Spencer spends so much time and energy encroaching on his space, in fact, it’s almost like he’s been trying to force Carlton do something about it.

Except there is no almost because that’s _exactly_ what he’s been doing.

It was all flirting.

It was all foreplay.

It still is.

Amused (but not surprised) to find the consultant going commando, his fingers find their way into Shawn’s jeans and Carlton pushes them as far down the man’s legs as he can with one hand, listening to the little noises Spencer makes when the cold air hits him.  

It’s refreshing to know that he’s gotten as far under Spencer’s skin as Spencer has gotten under his. Amazing that they, even with their walls built up as high and strong as they are, have gotten to know each other as well as they have. Astounding that the only thing that shocks him about Shawn anymore is the way he showed up unexpectedly at his door. How he dropped to his knees and sucked Carlton deep, his very special version of ‘hello’.

Spencer’s nearly keening now, no response to Carlton’s question but a soft kittenish sound escaping from somewhere at the back of his throat. His body is begging even if his words aren’t and Carlton’s long fingers ignore the weeping erection that must have soaked through Shawn’s jeans with how turned on he seems to be. Instead, they skate across the psychic’s chest and stomach, circling lower and lower on warm, sweat-dampened skin, bypassing what he’s sure Spencer is hoping he’ll touch to move directly to his goal: Shawn’s hole.

He knows the man asked to be fucked. Acts like he needs it. Begs like he wants it. But Shawn is also a wanton little slut and teasing him – _torturing_ him – is not only fair and just, but the only way Carlton knows for sure will tell him how serious Spencer is about the matter.

How serious he is about _Carlton_. How badly he needs him. How badly he _craves_ him.

Because Carlton needs him to crave him. Knows that the only way he’ll survive after this is by knowing Spencer is just as addicted to him as he is to the psychic. Knows that the only way he will be okay is if Spencer shares his personal hell.

Carlton’s finger circles the quivering muscle. Gently caressing, he’s barely touching – a ghost of a feeling he can only imagine is driving Shawn nuts – and he watches as the psychic bites his lip so hard he draws blood.

Pets touch-tightened testicles with his other hand, rolling them gently between his fingers.

Smiles, eating up Shawn’s reaction.

“Lassiiiiiieeeeee…” Spencer hisses, and it sounds damn near symphonic in Carlton’s ears.

Like everything he’s always wanted but never gotten to hear.

Like a promise that whatever happens next, Spencer is going to try his hardest not to fuck it up.

He’s going to fuck it up.

They both will.

But none of that matters right now so he decides not to hold it against them.

There’s no wetness there, not yet, and Carlton knows, he _knows_ it must be bordering on uncomfortable. But he feels the expansion and contraction of attraction and continues, wanting to – _needing_ to - see the man come undone before he gives in and gives him what he really wants.

Needing to break him so he can put him back together again.

“Jesus Christ, Lassiter. Holy fucking Hare Krishna, blessed Buddha, and the goddamn Lucky Charms Leprechaun! Would you please just stick your dick in me already?!”

Spencer is nearly quaking as he says this. His wrists haven’t moved from where Carlton put them, but his body is shaking and so is his voice and Carlton has never heard him like this but loves the fact that he’s seeing the psychic so bare. Maybe more so than he’s ever seen him before. Than he ever imagined he could be. He’s seeing Spencer stripped of all the melodrama, left at his mercy, coated in blatant desire and practically vibrating for him.

For _him_.

It’s better than all the birthday ponies and unlimited bullets and pineapple-free pizza in the world.

Carlton draws his finger away from Shawn then. Brings it to Spencer’s lips and loses the ability to think when the psychic catches it between his teeth and starts to suck. Pulls it back and replaces it with his mouth. Works that finger inside him as he kisses the consultant so hard his lips feel bruised, a single word falling from them in the process.

“No.”

Spencer is tight. Tighter than he expects a little slut like him to be. And he wonders what that means, if anything at all.

He slides his finger deeper.

Shawn moans against him, unabashed and vocal, even louder than he imagined, and he leans forward and bites at the skin connecting neck and collarbone, asking the question he knows that he shouldn’t but decides to vocalize anyway.

His voice is low and demanding. It rumbles in his throat and he can see how it affects Shawn and wonders what would happen if he were to use it in public.

Wonders if it would ever make the psychic obey.

Wonders if anyone would notice if it did.

“How many men have fucked you before?”

Shawn shudders at the inquiry, his body stilling for but half a second before he’s in motion, immobility an impossible task for the human hurricane. He cants his ass back as Carlton guides his finger in again, crooked and curling, searching for Shawn’s prostate. Spencer cries out when he finds it, and though he just barely skims across it, the psychic’s fingers clutch at thin air.

His breath is hot against Carlton’s ear.

“None, Lassie. None. Want you. Just you.”

Barely articulate, it spills from the psychic’s mouth and it takes Carlton a second to figure out what was said, his response flying from his own before he realizes it.

“Bullshit. I don’t believe you.”

Spencer freezes at that. Hurt flashes across his face and a frisson of feeling clenches in Carlton’s chest as he realizes his mis-step. But Spencer continues, and it’s the last thing Carlton would have ever expected.

“Fine. Fine, whatever.” His head turns to the side for a second before he catches Carlton’s gaze. His own is devastating, eyes full of some sort of emotion the cop can’t quite name, his voice laden with barely disguised pain. But it’s also heavy with lust and that’s what Carlton chooses to focus on instead; the psychic’s next words making it impossible not to. “Don’t believe me. You never do. Just _fuck me_ already _.”_

He’s sure Spencer’s telling the truth now. He’s sure because even though he’s never plowed a man’s ass before, he’s watched enough porn to know a single finger isn’t good enough preparation. But Spencer either doesn’t know or he doesn’t care. And oddly, while Carlton’s pornographic habits have left him highly educated, they’ve never really turned him on – the only man to have done so since college the one rutting against him, teeth attached to his earlobe, day-old stubble scraping the side of his face.

A second finger is added to the first, slowly twisting and stroking, petting Spencer’s insides and sliding full-contact against his prostate in silent apology. But he doesn’t keep it up for long. Not with the way Shawn is shaking and moaning and panting and wanting. Not with the way the psychic’s hand has found its way around his dick and is stroking gently, not enough to get himself off, but just enough to give Carlton one hell of a show.

Carlton doesn’t want a show. He wants to be the one determining how things go.

The one giving pleasure and setting the pace.

Shawn may have burst into his life and broken up the monotony of his evening – may have had him questioning and over-thinking and not thinking at all – but the tide turned when the psychic admitted what he wanted. And if Carlton is going to give it to him (and _boy,_ is he going to give it to him) he is going to do it his way.

 _His_.

Which means Spencer’s hands above his head as he tests the man’s sense of self-control.

His long fingers curl around Shawn’s thin wrists and he pries the psychic off himself, ignoring the whimper of protest as he re-adjusts him how he wants.  He uses a single hand to pin him down and Spencer’s arms dangle off the end of the couch, twitching slightly beneath his grip.

Shawn squirms.

He’s obviously enjoying the pressure but still has to tease in his own Spencerian way, moving and stretching and putting himself on display. Until Carlton brings his other hand to Shawn’s face, that is, the psychic’s eyes widening when he orders him to lick. But lick, he does, and soon Carlton’s fingers are coated in spit and on their way south, three of them sliding inside the man, who arches his body at the welcome intrusion.

“Holy three-hole punch!”

Chest rapidly rising and falling, Shawn cries out breathlessly. Carlton just grins, plunging his digits as deep as he can reach - scissoring and swiveling and spreading Spencer out as quickly as he can without hurting the man.

Rubbing at the stretched-out rim with his thumb.

Willing himself not to come, the debaucherous image dancing before his eyes making him practically pulsate with desire.

“Holy fucking three-hole punch!”

Carlton is hard - _so_ hard - and he can see that Shawn is too. The psychic is weeping at his touch, just _oozing_ pre-come, every stroke sending a bead spilling down the side of him. The slightly sticky swan-dive is intoxicating, and if Carlton weren’t so determined to get Spencer ready for him, weren’t dying to be buried inside the man – to know if truth was far better than fiction - he would take the time to lick it all away. Take the time to memorize the scent and flavor and feeling. Enjoy the taste of each drop as it lingered on his tongue.

But he doesn’t have the time. Doesn’t have the willpower.

“Lassie,” Spencer moans, and Carlton almost ignores him, so intent is he on what he is doing. But while his fingers continue to move - because nothing can stop him now, not a call from the Chief or his mother bursting in the room or a gunfight on his front step; nothing but Shawn’s disapproval - the reasonable part of his brain knows he needs to listen.

He doesn’t know what Spencer is going to say, but he’s sure it will be important. The man’s brain is so overloaded with sensation that the only sound he’s made in the last few minutes has been incomprehensible noise, which means that if he’s reaching for speech, it’s necessary to hear.

Carlton just hopes it isn’t an order to stop.

He hopes it isn’t ‘ _stop_ ’, because while he knows he can if he has to, he would rather cut his hand off at the wrist than cease what he’s doing.

Cease how he’s pleasing.

Cease how he’s making Shawn fall apart.

How, without doing anything more than responding to his touch, Shawn is making _him_ fall apart.

Spencer is shifting beneath him, a fine coat of sweat blanketing his body. His cheeks are a soft glowing pink and so is his chest. A near manic shine radiates from his eyes. His words fall from kiss-swollen lips and it turns out Carlton isn’t mistaken at all; the sentence Shawn speaks is incredibly important.

And also something he hadn’t considered.

He knows that he should have. If he had’ve been thinking, he would have. But Spencer just has a way of melting his brain – sending him into a tizzy with nothing but a look.

It doesn’t matter this time though, because the psychic is prepared.

“There’s a condom in my pocket.”

There’s a condom in Shawn’s pocket.

There’s a _condom_ in Shawn’s pocket, which means he came here with the intent to seduce. Which, Carlton supposes, he should have realized by the way Spencer pressed his face into the crotch of his pajama pants mere moments after his arrival. This seduction was _planned_ , and the thought both boggles his mind and makes him curious as to what it was that made him decide to take the risk. Because it _was_ a risk – a bullet in a dispensable body part the exact thing he had threatened Spencer with for far lesser infractions.

He knows he hasn’t been obvious about his crush.

O’Hara, in fact, had chewed him out for his many transgressions against the fake just earlier that week. He hasn’t been obvious, yet somehow Shawn _knows_ – somehow saw the truth and decided to act on it, no thought to what Carlton’s reaction could be or what it might mean outside the moment. But Spencer never seems to think outside the moment and thrives on provoking Carlton’s reactions, so it doesn’t really matter. Except, of course, for the fact that Carlton needs to know what it was that the little bastard saw, fully well aware that it wasn’t a psychic vision that set them on this path.

He needs to know so he can nip it in the bud.

So he can make sure it never happens again.

This is nice. Nicer than nice. Probably the best thing he’s experienced in years. But that doesn’t make it any less of a mistake. And he’s sure he’s going to hate himself for it come morning.

Hate his life come morning.

Was it the laugh? Was it that single moment, a split-second, really, that let the psychic see him for who he truly is? Outed him as a nerd and a weirdo, a not-quite straight cop with a big soft heart hidden by a cold hard shell?

The thought chills Carlton to the bone. He can’t share that part of himself – doesn’t know how and isn’t sure he should try. But even if he could, he knows sharing it with the person who’s made him prematurely grey isn’t the greatest of ideas.

Shawn’s a runner, even worse than Carlton is with feelings. While they both suck at emoting, Carlton’s time in couples therapy has at least taught him to try, clumsy as he is at expressing himself. Spencer, on the other hand, doesn’t even entertain that as an option.

Its shiny sentiments set to distract or nothing at all, the man failing at relationship after relationship, parading them past Carlton for who knows what reason. To make him jealous maybe? To rub in his own horrible luck with the female persuasion, perhaps? To make him hurt? He doesn’t know. But he’s also really not sure that what Spencer’s dragged past him could or should be classified as ‘relationships’. Shawn tends to shoot his emotional load on the first date after all, leaving him with nothing to offer a potential suitor – Abigail Lytar perfect proof of that.

Honestly, Carlton wouldn’t be surprised if he plans it that way.

Spencer’s not boyfriend material; he’s ‘For A Good Time Call’.

And while Carlton didn’t call him – would never call him, too wrapped up in the complexities of his emotions and their repercussions to ever have the courage to – he _is_ having a good time. Hell, he’d be having a _great_ time were it not for the dark thoughts creeping out at him from the corners of his mind, leaving a slimy trail of doubt tracked across his brain.

They remind him that he doesn’t do one-night stands anymore.

That he doesn’t play games.

They’re the ones that make him wonder why the hell someone like Shawn would want him anyway.

Why a man like Shawn Spencer, whose charm and smile and wit has had men and women of all persuasions falling at his feet, cops and criminals alike…

Why a man who’s never had a dick up his ass wants Carlton to be his first.

It doesn’t make sense.

He knows why _he_ wants _Shawn_. Knows that there’s a part of himself that was close to atrophying before Spencer shot into his life and forced it to resuscitate. Not the queer side of himself, but the _alive_ part. The part that cares what people think and misses having friends. The part of him that wants to live and laugh and love.

Wants to be a part of things.

But he also knows that he’s odd and off-putting. Is _naturally_ odd and works _hard_ to be off-putting. He’s stuck in his ways and kind of an asshole and even though he wants to further integrate himself into life at the precinct, he pushes those who would be his family aside with words and actions both colder than a Siberian wasteland.

It's easier that way. Better that way.

He snaps at O’Hara because he can’t chance it. Yells at McNab for the same reason. Wishes he could be as optimistic and carefree as both for a fraction of a second before he remembers that once upon a time he had been. And life had chewed him up and spat him out for his efforts.

He can’t chance them getting too close. Seeing how damaged he really is. Can’t let anyone in because if they see the cracks in his façade, he knows that it will crumble. So he puts on his mask every morning, knowing that it’s better to bark orders and tell them to shut it and keep their questions at bay than it is to let anyone see his vulnerable side. His jealous side. To let them see the side of him that’s still too tender to risk getting hurt again.

He’s _going_ to get hurt again.

He knows this, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

He’s tried so hard to avoid it, putting so very little effort into anything that had the potential, Spencer included. But Shawn’s reaching for that rubber since Carlton hasn’t moved, and he knows this is going to hurt him more than anything ever has before, the work he’s done to build those walls unravelling with every movement and moan and groan and grunt and squeal that Spencer makes.

The psychic’s hands are searching for the jeans tangled at his knees and when his fingers graze the cop’s thigh, Carlton starts at the motion, slapping Shawn away and biting almost viciously into his neck as he pulls the denim pants right off him.

The rough fabric of cheap t-shirt scratches against his chest when he leans in and Carlton knows he’s going to leave a bruise on Shawn’s soft and tender skin, but he really doesn’t care.

Tomorrow might bring regret and questions and recriminations. It might bring self-hatred and embarrassment and shame. But tonight, Shawn is his and he is going to pretend that this is just one evening of many. That Shawn is his lover, for now and for always. That he has a right to claim him this way.

That Shawn _wants_ him to claim him this way.

Spencer gasps and it turns into a sound of pleasure when Carlton begins to suckle, marking him like he marked Carlton. _Worse_ than he marked Carlton. And as he pulls away, stripping the psychic of both his shirt and his dignity in the process, something in the cop breaks. He’s not sure what, but he knows that whatever it was is gone for good. His hand is on Shawn’s wrist. He’s pressing him into the leather of the couch and the other hand has the condom in its grip. And Shawn is whimpering, moaning, mad for him, bitching at the loss of fingers and completely unprepared for what’s coming next.

They both are.

Carlton opens the foil package with his teeth. He looks at Spencer, his hunger permeating the room - animalistic and raw and needy and loud - and refuses to break eye contact as he rolls the condom on one-handed, a trick he learned from his pierced pink-haired college girlfriend; the one who not only introduced him to peyote, but also the possibility of his heteroflexibility when she broke up with him in the middle of the quad in front of half the campus after a weekend bender. When she left him a shattered shell of a man in the most public of places and it was up to his roommate to pick up the pieces.

But he can’t think about Nick now. Doesn’t want to think about him ever.

The condom is on.

The condom is on and Carlton’s breath locks in his chest. He knows Shawn is holding his too, but whether from nerves or anticipation or wonder, he’s not sure. Either way, it won’t do. It won’t do because he knows not breathing will make Shawn hurt. So he leans forward, pressing light kisses along the man’s neck. Mutters sweet nothings into his flesh. Moves his fingers down Spencer’s chest and across his stomach and over his hipbone, stroking the soft expanse of skin as gently as he can until he finally reaches Shawn’s erection.

His fingers dust across the throbbing member just long enough to feel all of him - the length of him and girth of him and heat of him; how he shudders and moans when Carlton strokes the taut, hot skin - then presses his thumb just under the crown of the man’s cock.

He loves the way the psychic reacts to that, too.

The look on Spencer’s face, the sound he makes, may just be the most wonderful thing Carlton has ever experienced. It’s obscene and it’s orgasmic and it has Carlton wound so tight he swears he’s going to snap. And while Shawn is distracted, inhaling a mouthful of air and turning his dark glittering gaze on him – a gaze that burns right through him, just sends molten lava coursing through his veins – Carlton sheaths himself in fake psychic. It’s a single motion, a gentle thrust - like ripping off a band-aid, except it’s his dick in Spencer’s ass - and a guttural sound tears from Shawn’s throat, his fingers flying from the end of the couch to around Carlton’s neck, clutching at him like he’s a strand of pearls and Shawn’s an offended southern belle.

“Ohhhh. Ohh God, Lassie. Fuck. Lassie… just… fuuuucccckk.”

He’s breathless and he’s babbling, and he feels so tight and right and good, but Carlton forces himself not to move, knowing that he should have taken his time but didn’t. Knowing that he should have found some lube but didn’t, relying on the stuff coating the condom to do the job. Shawn must be burning, a hot streak running through him from Carlton’s body sliding so effortlessly into his own. And while Carlton feels like a thousand stars have crash-landed into his brain and set him on fire, he knows that Shawn needs to adjust before he can even think of moving.

The psychic _needs_ to adjust but it doesn’t seem like he wants to, listlessly shifting with the larger man propped up on his forearms atop him. But regardless of what Shawn wants, Carlton knows what he needs. He _knows_. Three fingers is nothing compared to the size of a fully erect penis and if he doesn’t get used to the feeling, Carlton isn’t going to be able to make this good for him.

He wants to make this good for him.

 _So_ fucking good for him.

Wants to make the experience linger in Shawn’s body and brain and heart and mind and soul like he’s sure it will his own. Fucking tattoo it there so it never leaves him. So no matter what happens, he always remembers Carlton as his first.

Carlton wishes his only.

He doesn’t know why - knows it would be likely to fail, blow up as spectacularly as if it were strapped with C4 and had thirty-seconds to detonation – but for some stupid reason, he wishes he could find a way to make it work with this man. Knows it would drive him up the wall and back down again, but still wishes he could capture his flame and hold it close and somehow, some way call it his own.

Call Shawn his own.

But he knows that he can’t.

Spencer doesn’t belong to anybody. Never has and never will.

The psychic’s teeth are clenched and he’s mumbling under his breath and Carlton wants to hear him, so he tells him so. Runs his finger along Shawn’s split-open lip and orders him to open his mouth. To be as loud as he likes, fuck what the neighbors think, even though he knows he’s going to regret that too - another addition to the long list of things he’s going to stew about come morning. Spencer is going to shake the rafters and shatter vases and maybe even get the cops called on them, he’s sure of this. Sure of it like he’s sure that grass is green and the sky is blue.

But Spencer surprises him, voice barely rising though he makes an obvious effort to be better understood.

“Shit, Lassie,” he exhales. “Fuck.”

It’s a deep breath. One where Carlton says nothing, just runs his fingers along Shawn’s ribs and down his hip to caress his thigh, stroking nonsense patterns into the flesh he finds there to relax him while he waits to hear what the psychic has to say.

“God. Carlton. Fuck, you’re –“

Carlton shudders.

Never in a million years, not even in his most fantastic of fantasies, has he ever imagined being balls deep in Shawn Spencer and being called by his name. It’s always been Lassie. Always been _Lass_. And the reality of it almost makes him lose control. Makes him want to fuck the psychic silly right there. Just pound into him until he screams, until there’s nothing left in that ridiculous head of his but echoes of Carlton and Carlton’s name. But he doesn’t, the slight squeak he hears when he surges forward to kiss Spencer stopping him.

Shawn’s breathing now. Breathing heavy beneath him. And Carlton rests his forehead against the psychic’s and notes that it is slightly damp; sweaty, like he’s under great strain.

Worried that it’s too much, he moves to pull out, but the hands shift from his neck to his shoulders and slide down his triceps to grip him tight, Shawn crying out –

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat! Don’t you fucking dare!”

Carlton stops.

Shifts a little.

Watches as Shawn’s face screws up in...

Well, he’s not sure what. But it’s obvious the man is overwhelmed by sensation, nonetheless.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Spencer.”

Shawn rolls his eyes at that.

Clamps down around him a little, experimentally.

Groans, seeming to like what he feels.

Carlton does, too.

“Fuck, Carlton –“

There it is again.

His name.

Carlton can count on one hand how many times Spencer has used it in the past and never before now has he realized how much it turns him on. Like it’s dirty. Filthy. Forbidden. Like from Shawn’s mouth, his name is taboo. The psychic’s voice wraps around it like sweat-soaked velvet and he doesn’t understand why it affects him so… so _viscerally_. But it does, so he rolls his hips in response, just barely – just enough that Spencer moans at the motion.

Shawn’s heart thumps. And Carlton’s heart thumps back, blood pounding beneath thin skin as they lay flush together, Shawn’s legs wrapped around Carlton’s waist, erection bobbing against his belly as the psychic continues.

“You’re – you’re not. You feel _good_. Like liquid lightning or rainbows made corporeal. But it’s just… it’s a lot. Different. Just… takes a bit of getting used to.”

Carlton lips turn upward at that, the snark on the tip of his tongue before he realizes it.

“Like you, you mean?”

Shawn blinks.

His eyes are cloudy. Lust-filled. Unfocused, it takes him a second to catch on to what Carlton’s said. His fingers flutter down Carlton’s arms and goosebumps spring up from where he touches, the sensation of slightly calloused skin trailing across Carlton’s own sending tiny shocks straight through him.

He wonders what the roughness is from. Video games? Wastebasket ball? Gratuitous masturbation? But the query doesn’t last long, the thought slipping free from his head the second Shawn responds to his jab.

“I’m a flavor that everyone loves, Lassifrass. I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

The psychic is smarmy. Sarcastic. And when Shawn clenches again to punctuate, Carlton has to grit his teeth because it feels so good. Feels _too_ good. But Shawn’s not ready yet, much as he might think otherwise.

“You never do, psychic. You’re the smartest idiot I’ve ever met.”

Shawn cocks his head, a little grin flitting across his face. But he’s quiet and lets Carlton continue, the look he wears both obnoxious and, of course, something Carlton must make him pay for.

“You’re so smart it’s stupid, as a matter of fact.”

Shawn’s smile gets wider at that, like he’s pleased Carlton has finally figured out he’s not the dumbass he pretends to be. Carlton doesn’t understand why he has to pretend at all, but he’s glad he’s finally begun to crack Spencer’s code and wonders how many before him have.

Wonders if that’s the thing that triggers the man’s fight or flight response.

It doesn’t matter though; pinned under his weight, Shawn’s not going anywhere for a good long while.

 “Which is why I don’t understand why your hands aren’t on the top of the goddamn couch right now.”

Shawn’s face falls at the growl, but not in a worried way. More like an _oh-my-God-this-is-so-hot-what-did-I-sign-myself-up-for?_ kind of way. And without a peep, those fingers fly to the cushioned arm of the couch and hold on tight and Carlton chuckles to himself because if only he’d known all it took to get Spencer to obey him was a dick up his ass…

 _His_ dick up his ass.

“Does that mean if I’m a good boy, you’ll finally actually fuck me, _Sir_?” Shawn says, half-mocking, half-pleading, eyebrow cocked in a delightful display of insubordination.

The word does something to Carlton much like his own name does.

A chill races up his spine and his heart beats harder, faster - like a souped-up street-racer hellbent on achieving glory regardless the cost. His balls tighten and his skin tingles and the sound washes over him, but he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to let Shawn make him lose his barely held onto control. So Carlton pulls out almost completely. Covers the man’s mouth with one hand and grips his hip with the other. Watches the psychic’s face slacken and how his eyes widen in surprise when he slides himself back in.

It’s deep. And it’s slow. And he can feel a puff of air against his palm and the way Shawn’s body trembles and how he unconsciously squeezes down when Carlton bottoms out.

It’s beautiful.

So fucking beautiful.

“Oh God. Ohh… fuck – Lassie, Jesus fuck. Lord T’underin’ Pineapple, holy Jesus fuck.”

The sound is muffled but Carlton can feel every syllable kiss the crease of his slightly sweaty palm. Removes his hand from Spencer’s mouth, his heart skipping a beat when he caresses the side of Shawn's face and Shawn leans into the touch. The psychic doesn’t have anything sarcastic to say now, and Carlton takes advantage of that - of the fact that he’s uncharacteristically off balance - to ask the one thing he really wants the answer to.

“Why?”

Spencer just looks at him a moment, their breath in sync as Shawn calms down and Carlton riles himself up, too many thoughts rushing through his head to make sense of any. But the look Shawn wears is asking him if he’s stupid and then his mouth is doing the same, and Carlton would flip the psychic over and spank him silly were he not half-convinced it would get the man off.

 “Why?” he growls again, digging his fingers into the meat of Shawn’s ass and holding on for dear life when he bucks up into him.

Spencer’s brow furrows and he glares but also wiggles, clearly trying and failing to goad the cop into action. He looks as petulant as he can when he speaks and Carlton loves it, even though he knows it’s meant to annoy.

He fucking _loves_ it, just like he loves so many things about the consultant that he shouldn’t.

“Why _what,_ Lassieface?”

Carlton glares at that - a glare that has broken many a bad man. He wants to punish Shawn for using that name when he’s buried balls-deep inside him, but he can’t. Not in the traditional way, anyhow. Because he knows, just _knows_ that if he does the psychic will find a way to get off track, diversion the man’s goddamn superpower. Instead, he decides to use what Spencer wants against him, the most diabolical thing he can do:

Fingers dancing across a thigh in an act of distraction, he slowly slides himself out of the man.

Spencer makes a face at him, like he’s mad at Carlton’s motion but the sensation’s too good to bitch about, his mouth falling open like a gutted fish when the crown of Carlton’s cock catches at his rim and pops out. And while Shawn is reveling in the feeling and mourning the loss of being filled, Carlton repositions his dick and thrusts back in. As languorously as he can, each torturous inch accentuating the gravity of his question.

“Why? Why. Are. You. Here? Why me? Why like this?”

Spencer’s eyes roll in his head, the little hitch in his throat made vocal when Carlton is fully seated inside him. He wants to answer, it’s obvious he wants to answer, but he’s struggling for words and only able to manage partial coherency, his fingers white-knuckle gripping the cool leather couch behind him.

“Slipped,” he chokes out. “Showed your true colors. Showed you like me.”

He had. Carlton knows this. Isn’t surprised that that’s what it was. But he’s also sure that there’s more. That Spencer is holding something back. So he swivels until Shawn’s head looks like it’s about to spin and watches as he bites his lip again; watches him slowly unravel and _then_ he asks his next question. Because Spencer forgot he’s dealing with the king of interrogation techniques and Carlton is nothing if not wily in his ways.

“And?”

Shawn starts to speak again and - just to torment, just to tease, just because he _can_ \- Carlton begins to move.

Deliberately.

Methodically.

What he’s sure is absolutely fucking _frustratingly_.

His dick drags against the sensitive nerves inside the psychic. Hits the end of him and retreats again. And Shawn mewls, fucking _mewls,_ his voice cracking as Carlton draws the answer out by pushing into his body.

Slowly.

Repeatedly.

“Showed you _really_ like me,” Shawn breathes.

Carlton mashes their hips together and Shawn moans, the rest of his answer carried from his mouth to Carlton’s ears by a heavy passion-filled exhale.

“In the interrogation room.”

Spencer’s pulse is pounding; Carlton can feel it under his fingertips. Swears he almost hears it. But he stays quiet. Allows him to betray himself. Revels in the silence that must be killing Shawn and rewards him for every word he speaks by rocking gently back and forth, aware of how hard it must be to be so honest in such a vulnerable position.

How hard it must be for the man to be so honest _ever._

“Followed you. Saw how much it affects you. How much having to – having to hide that part of yourself hurts –“

Carlton stills. Every part of him is throbbing and his arms are shaking from the effort of holding himself up and his brain is shaking from the effort of holding himself together and he doesn’t mean to be so cold, but cold is exactly how he sounds when he says -

“What part of myself? What the hell do you think you saw, psychic?”

Shawn’s eyes are closed. He shivers, like Carlton’s words are made of melting snow and he’s being waterboarded with the runoff. But he keeps talking, his honesty valve open and stuck in the ‘on’ position. His hands slip and Carlton can see the moisture on his couch from where they gripped and before he can be called on it, the psychic catches himself and repositions them, his mouth still flapping like a sheet in the breeze.

Carlton can only catch every third word or so and little of it makes sense. Spencer is rambling, something about his motorcycle and firing on all cylinders and some other drivel that’s practically impossible to comprehend, and the cop’s brow creases at the nonsense, his inability to figure it out pissing him off. He knows he’s getting his answer in typical Shawn Spencer fashion, but his irritation must show on his face because Spencer hesitates for a moment before switching gears, his fingers clinging at the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking open like the snow-globe Carlton had smashed on his mother’s tiled kitchen floor when he was four.

The psychic’s mouth is moving. But his speech is stammered, and Carlton can hear what he’s saying but it’s almost like he’s under water.

He knows that he’s not.

He knows that it’s because he’s afraid of what Shawn is going to say.

Knows that it’s because he’s afraid of what he’s saying.

Because being free and allowing someone to witness it are _completely_ different creatures.

“Saw you need this. Saw you need me. You need me just as bad as I need you. That you love me as much as I love you.”

Carlton doesn’t know what to do with that.

The answer leaves Shawn’s mouth and it’s like time has ceased to exist.

 Like it never existed to begin with.

Like his heart is about to explode in his chest and leave little pieces of Carlton Lassiter strewn about the room.

Stuck to the ceiling.

Spencer will be picking him out of his hair for days.

He would give anything for it not to be a joke - a twisted, malicious, lets-fuck-with-Lassiter joke - but there’s been too much hurt in the past for Carlton to take anything Spencer says seriously. So he leans back and disengages without even meaning to. Finds his hand wrapped around the man’s throat, his fingers pressing into the savage bite he’d left as he says –

“Fuck you, Spencer. Just… fuck you.”

His heart is breaking because he wants it to be true.

He wants it to be true and it can’t be, and Shawn’s eyes fly open - not at the pressure around his throat but at what Carlton says – the startled look slicing through him, just sizzling and scorching his skin and bones. It’s like there’s poison working its way through his veins, acid eating away at him, searing holes into his heart.

For some reason Carlton can’t quite comprehend, the psychic’s eyes are green now. And something painful and primal surges straight through him when the man turns them on him and groans.

Spencer’s words thrum beneath his touch. The hurt on his face is masked by attraction, by his obvious need to make Carlton understand, however the hell he expects to do that, and Carlton can’t quite believe what he hears next.

“Yes, Lassie. Fuck me. Please fuck me,” Shawn whines.  Begs, wrapping himself tighter around Carlton’s waist, locking him in place with his legs. “Make me yours. I’m yours.”

His hands drop from the couch and he reaches for the cop. Grabs him by the dick and tries to slide him back in. But Carlton clenches his jaw and pulls Shawn’s hand away as he scrabbles for purchase, his fingers somehow tangling together with Carlton’s own.

“I mean it, Lassie.”

Shawn whimpers. Tries to wiggle Carlton in deeper, the tip of the cop’s dick just resting against him. He slants his hips forward. Does everything in his power to make things go his way. Fails, managing only to further torment himself as the crown of the detective’s cock snags on and drags against his greedy little hole.

It’s clear he thinks he needs to make Carlton listen. For some reason thinks he can use his body to do so. But Carlton refuses to let him. Spencer _always_ wins and after uttering those words…

No.

 **_No_ ** **.**

This is Carlton’s house. Carlton’s couch. Carlton’s heart, Carlton’s soul. It’s his way or the highway and with how he feels right now, he’s tempted to hate-fuck Spencer right out the door.

“I need you. Fucking love you. Have for years,” Spencer continues, near frantic in his need to express himself – a rare occasion, when Carlton is so used to psychobabble and bullshit, not heartfelt emotion. “Why the hell do you think I do the things I do to you, dummy?”

 _Somehow,_ the cop thinks, _this is better._

Fighting Shawn while fucking him just seems more natural. Almost like he was born to do it. So he takes the hands he has in his grip and pins them back above the psychic’s head, roughly shoving his dick back inside, Spencer so much tighter now with his legs wrapped around him.

Shawn had been begging. Squeezing. Wiggling. Keening. But now he’s taut and hot, strung out beneath him, full of Carlton and not moving at all.

And Carlton makes him want to regret it.

Makes him want to regret wanting him. Taunting him. Lying about loving him.

Spencer doesn’t _love_ him. He just wants sex.

Maybe something to lord over him.

Power.

Perhaps compensation for the fist to the face he’d been forced to feed him on their last case.

Shawn can’t love him.

He just _can’t._

“Because,” Carlton says, his voice low and loaded with anger. With frustration. Humiliation. A little bit of hope, but mostly pain and exasperation and ice so sharp and cold he could drive it straight through Shawn’s heart and kill him dead right there. “Because you’re a little shit made to make my life miserable.”

That’s true. He _is_ a little shit and he _does_ make Carlton’s life miserable. But whereas he used to be aggravated by the prodigy solving his cases with a panache that should be declared illegal, these days Carlton’s frustration comes from the fact that just laying eyes on the man reminds him of what he wants and can never have.

Carlton can’t close his eyes without visions of Spencer infiltrating his dreams. Sliding into places he shouldn’t be – places deep in Carlton’s psyche that he would never admit to having, let alone letting Spencer into. The psychic dances about like an absolute imbecile, thoughts of the fake keeping the cop awake at night. They distract him during the day. Make it impossible to have a moment to himself because Shawn is always there, either on the outskirts of his vision as he flails around the precinct or the outskirts of his mind as he flails around his brain, claiming attention that Carlton should be focusing elsewhere.

Spencer is impossible.

Untamable.

Like a wild stallion, galloping his way across the cop’s life, leaving a trail of destruction and desire in his wake.

A free-range fraud, fucking up Carlton’s meticulously crafted mental habits, barging in and snatching any sense of self-control the detective may have developed.

And Carlton wants to hate him for it. For showing him an alternate option to the life he’s been living. For making him want Shawn when he shouldn’t.

For making him miss the feeling of loving.

For making him miss the feeling of being loved.

He wants to hate Spencer for never having a care in the world. For the years of mockery, ridiculing his ability as a cop and as a man. For the quick comradery he creates with everyone in his orbit, a comradery Carlton couldn’t achieve if he tried.

He wants to hate him for knowing how to be so open and honest, even while lying through his teeth.

For being able to bare his soul, even while hiding it.

For _being._

Shawn is who he is. And he is unapologetic about it.

Carlton wishes that could be him.

Untethered.

Unfettered.

Unbothered.

Free.

Free to just… be.

But he’s not, and he can’t, and maybe that’s part of the reason he wants to hold the psychic down and taste him; feed off his frenetic energy, use it as fuel and finally learn to fly.

Maybe that’s why he wants to pretend there’s more to this than there really is.

Pretend that what Spencer’s saying is the truth – the he really does need Carlton.

Always has.

Always will.

But ever the pragmatist, he can’t.

He can’t fool himself.

And he won’t let Spencer fool him either, aware that this can’t be anything more than meaningless sex. Because… because if it is - if Shawn wants more than just his body, needs more than the future emasculation Carlton assumed he had planned with this seduction - then Carlton really _will_ know nothing and his entire world will fall apart, leaving him scattered in the ashes of an existence so frail it shattered with a single truth.

As much as he wants to hate Spencer…

As begrudging as it may be sometimes…

Carlton has grown to love the man.

And he knows that Spencer knows it and is likely throwing it in his face, but he won’t have it played upon.

He _won’t._

His feelings aren’t a fucking game.

His emotions are not a spectator sport.

There is no participation trophy for seducing Carlton Lassiter, dammit.

It just won’t stand.

But Shawn’s fingers have curled around his wrists. They’re still above his head and his arms must be sore by now. Stretched out beneath Carlton, he smells of sweat and sex. Tastes of slightly salty skin and citrus. But he’s taking everything the cop is giving him, his blunt but beautifully manicured fingernails digging into Carlton’s flesh.

Carlton doesn’t care.

This is the way they’ve always been.

The way they always _should_ have been – clashing and gnashing and clawing at each other.

Nice was nice, but it wasn’t really them and it never will be them, so he pounds into Shawn almost voraciously, hoping to screw the honest truth out of the man because he just can’t take it anymore.

“No. It’s because I fucking love you, asshole.”

It comes out as a sob and lances straight through him.

Heads straight to Carlton’s dick, which somehow gets harder as he plunges it into the man, over and over and over again, chastising Shawn for his lies the only way he knows how. He feels Spencer quiver, both inside and out. Feels hot air against his neck as he struggles to catch his breath. Feels the sweat build between them and how it pools in the divot of Spencer’s hips, coating their chests and stomachs and thighs as they slide, slick and sore, together.

Its magical, and its madness. In a way nothing has ever been before.

He can taste it.

Feel it.

He’s fucking breathing it, bathing in it, and it’s the most magnificent thing in the world.

And it makes him hate himself.

“Because I love you. Want you to pay attention to me. _Need_ you to pay attention to me. Need you to need me like I need you. I need you. Fucking **_need_** you.”

He doesn’t understand it and doesn’t know _how_ to understand it and it has him so off-kilter that it’s almost painful. And Carlton doesn’t care if he’s hurting Shawn, though he’s fairly sure he’s not - not with the way he's reacting. Spencer is meeting his every motion, ass pressed flush into his groin, the sounds of his pleasure painting the walls of Carlton’s living room like he’s Jackson Pollock and his building orgasm is a work of art.

He’s sure the psychic is going to regret the rapacity tomorrow. Maybe regret it _all_ tomorrow. But tomorrow doesn’t matter when all that exists is right now. And right now, Shawn wants him – Shawn _needs_ him - just as bad.

Or, at least, that’s what he says.

“Lassie,” he croons, and Carlton picks up pace, the speed almost punishing.

Almost brutal.

Carlton knows he’s going to feel it later. Feel it _all_ later. Need to curl up with a bottle of Advil and a hot shower because he’s pretty sure he’s put his back out. Need to curl up with a blanket and a bottle of Scotch because he’s pretty sure he’s put his brain out. But Shawn’s mouth has somehow made it to his ear and his teeth are skimming the shell and latching onto the lobe and the little ‘ _lassie lassie lassie lassie_ ’ he hears is what finally makes him lose control.

He lets go of Shawn’s wrists to attach himself to the man’s lips and the second he does the psychic’s arms are around the curve of his neck. His fingers are in Carlton’s hair and his tongue is in his mouth and he’s carting himself back just as hard as Carlton is forward - like they’re trying to break each other and neither really gives a shit about who’s gonna win because they’re both gonna win and they’re both gonna lose and it’s all about making sure the other really gets it.

All about making sure the other never _forgets_ it.

He forces Spencer’s legs apart. Guides them over his shoulders. Feels coarse hair and strong muscle slide over the soft skin of his upper arms as he shoves himself deeper. Folds the man in half when he leans forward to kiss his way up Shawn’s thick and corded neck, hearing him murmur –

“I love you, Lassie. And I know you love me. I know you do. You love me. Fuck, you love me so much and ohhh God. Oh God, Lassie, yes. Please, yes. Jesus fucking fuck, yes. Sweet golden pineapple, Lassie – the feeling is mutual. _So_ fucking mutual. I swear it is. I need you. God, I need you so much. Love you so much.”

Shawn’s words are pure babble but they’re also at least partially true. Carlton _does_ love him. And he hates that Spencer knows it and hates that he’s said it and reacts by taking that tender spot he’s already abused on the man’s neck and worrying it between his teeth, sure that it’s going to bruise just like his thighs will – long, thin fingerprint shaped bruises from where Carlton’s held on tight. Held on like he never wants to let him go.

He doesn’t. But that often-thought-of delusion is entirely beside the point.

“You don’t believe me. I know you don’t believe me,“ Spencer says, and that’s the truth, too.

Carlton would give anything to take Shawn’s words to heart. He would. But their relationship has been built off lies – the not-psychic has been lying to him from the very moment they met, after all – and he’s left with no reason to believe what he says is honest without an ounce of proof.

But at the same time, years of deception between them cloud his vision, so Carlton’s not even sure what _would_ constitute as proof anymore.

It’s half of why he despises himself for giving in.

He knows better.

Deserves better.

It doesn’t matter that Spencer makes his heart skip a beat whenever he sees him. Makes him feel young again. Makes him want to achieve more, whether he means to or not. Carlton can’t deal with the lies. He watched his parent’s marriage fall apart because of them. His own fall apart due to unspoken truths. And he knows there’s nothing that Spencer could say that would change the fact that he spouts bullshit each and every day, an act that makes him absolutely impossible to trust.

And that’s what this is all about, he realizes mid-thrust.

Trust. And the distinct lack of it between himself and the man he’s railing into.

Spencer is gorgeous. Funny. Witty. Brilliant. Sometimes even kind.

But he’s the most untrustworthy person Carlton has ever met and the fact that he’s entirely enamored with him makes his stomach roil.

He _wants_ to believe Shawn. Wants to believe him more than anything. But the doubt has wrapped itself around him so tight it’s like he’s suffocating. And it hurts. It hurts so fucking much to know that what he wants is right there in front of him and he has no way to tell if it’s real. Which is why he has no choice but to reject it, the need to protect himself overwhelming.

It’s like cutting off a limb.

Allowing hope to wither and die.

Like betrayal of the deepest kind.

But he does it anyway.

He holds back his hurt and tempers it.

Turns it into a weapon instead.

“Of course I don’t, Spencer. Why would I? All you do is lie,” he says, disciplining the man with his dick and disbelief all at the same time.

It has the desired effect.

Shawn’s fingers singe into his shoulder blades, one hand holding on to him while the other slides up the nape of his neck to tug at his hair. The sensation sends jolts of electricity down Carlton’s spine and he’s so wrapped up in the feeling he almost misses the little moans Shawn's making, like he’s simultaneously enjoying and overwhelmed by each thrust into his body, every spear shoving him deeper and deeper into the couch. But his eyes are alight, full of emotion and challenging, and Carlton knows it’s not just his skin that’s going to be marked up by this encounter.

It’s like the look is cutting right through all his bullshit - bullshit Carlton didn’t even know was there. And suddenly he’s drowning, struggling for air in the ocean of emotion that is Shawn Spencer.

“I’m not running,” the psychic whispers, teeth clacking together as Carlton grinds into him, impossible to be buried any deeper inside the man.

Panting, he scratches down Carlton’s back to let him know he likes it.

That he deserves it.

That he wants more. 

Carlton gives it to him.

Carlton gives it to him like he always eventually winds up giving Spencer everything.

“I’m here. ‘m not running,” Shawn says, tone as hot and heavy as the testicles that slap against Carlton’s stomach every time he slams home.

His voice cracks but clearly uncaring of how he sounds, Shawn continues, his body shaking.

Quaking.

“Not running. But God... I wanted to. Stood on your doorstep, so fucking scared. But I didn’t. I didn’t run. Scared, but ’m here. _I’m here._ ”

Spencer groans the word.

Stutters it.

Stumbles over it as the cop switches to short staccato bursts, his hips tilted to find and fuck into the psychic’s prostate.

Carlton’s angry and he’s sad and he’s hot and hard and irritated. He’s overwhelmed by emotion and sensation and he loves and hates every damn second of it. And Shawn keeps talking, stirring everything up inside him like he’s one of those expensive blenders Victoria had been eyeing before their last anniversary and Carlton’s the batter for funfetti-filled confusion cupcakes.

“Should be halfway to Topeka by now. But ’m not. Knew you might shoot me or hit me or hate me but couldn’t stop m’self. Had to be here. Had to feel you. Had to _tell_ you. Couldn’t spend another day with you not knowing.”

“Liar,” Carlton spits out, his only defense against the truth – Shawn’s truth.

Shawn _is_ a liar, but the more he protests, the more Carlton’s sure that he isn’t lying about _this_. And that scares the hell out of him, far more than if Spencer had been lying through his teeth. A dangerous liaison, he can deal with, but how the hell can he come to terms with the psychic’s feelings when he can’t figure out what the hell to do with his own?

He’d wanted Spencer for so long.

 _Still_ wants Spencer, regardless of how much he chastises himself for it.

But it’s supposed to be unrequited. A stupid crush that he can castigate himself for like a good Catholic, then forget about and move on with his less than stellar life. It’s not supposed to be hearts and stars and rainbows. And he knows, just _knows_ that if he gives into it even slightly, it will be his undoing.

It’s easier to push the thoughts away.

Shove his feelings back down to deal with some other day.

Come up with reasons it would explode in his face.

Convince himself that trying for something real would be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, regardless of how much he might want to.

Regardless of how the possibility seems to be splayed out on a silver platter just waiting for him to take.

It’s better to be lonely. To be the butt of the joke.

Carlton is used to those things.

He’s not used to being _loved_.

He’s just… not.

“I’m a liar, Lassie. I’m a liar, but never about anything important,” Shawn says.

It’s desperate and desire-filled, begging for both release and understanding, and Carlton’s not quite sure how he knows this, but he _knows._

And he wants to give it to Shawn.

He _does._  

But he can’t.

“Only ever really lied to you once. But not about this. Never about this.”

Carlton’s close. The combination of everything inside, everything he’s heard, has him teetering towards the edge. His feelings are being licked by flame and he has no idea what’s going to tip him over, what’s going to make him catch fire, but he knows this is going to be the most emotional orgasm he’s ever had.

And he knows he’s not ready.

He _knows._

The cop’s not prepared, so he tries to stave it off, but it’s dancing towards him on satin wings without the slightest care in the world for what it’s going to do to him. Shawn’s body is trembling and his mouth is moving, and Carlton knows that he’s talking but there’s a disconnect between what Spencer says and what he hears, like there’s light-years of love and affection between them muffling the words.

“God, I need you, Lassie. Need you so bad.”

If only it were true.

If only each word weren’t a lie designed to tear him apart.

If only there were a way to make Spencer change…

But then he wouldn’t be Shawn – wouldn’t be the man Carlton had fallen for ages ago.

And if he wasn’t Shawn, then there would be no point to any of this.

The pain. The suffering. The pleasure. The joy.

Worthless.

Wearisome.

A waste of his time.

“No. No, you don’t need me. You don’t need me and you’ll just fucking leave me. You – you –“

The deflection and denial is automatic, but he feels his guard slipping, feels the barrier around his heart fading into nothingness, every syllable that slips from Spencer’s mouth eroding the stone walls he thought he’d been protecting himself with.

Fearful for the longest time, he’d swaddled himself in what he’d thought was the truth – took the little bits of information he’d been given and created worlds of what he assumed was reality with them. And he’s never said a thing, so sure he was right. So sure that doing so – that having those feelings at all - would just result in his agony.

But he’s wrong.

It turns out that the only agony he feels, he brought about himself.

That all his stories are lies.

That _he’s_ been the one causing his pain.

 _He’s_ the reason his soul feels like it’s been dying.

Carlton speaks his fears now. And though he doesn’t mean them to, they spark a response that rattles him. Makes him reconsider. Makes him realize exactly how deep Spencer’s feeling for him goes.

 “Can’t promise that,” Shawn murmurs as Carlton juts into him.

His arms are around the psychic’s shoulders, hands clutching at his amazingly coiffed hair. Spencer’s mouth is a perfect little O, insides fluttering with every inch of Carlton’s intrusion. And it feels amazing.

More than amazing.

But then, hands on his ass as urgent as his words, Shawn continues with the most honest thing the cop has ever heard him say and Carlton almost does a double-take, so taken aback is he by the phrase.

“Want to. Want to but _can’t_.”

Spencer is a smooth-talker.

He’s a man who knows what to say to get his way; how to win a person over, all fluid words and sexy distractions and wild gesticulation. But Shawn’s hand is on his ass and the other is around his waist and he’s holding Carlton there and whispering the truth in his ear and Carlton knows it’s the truth because he’s never heard Spencer this way before.

So open and blatant and vulnerable and bare.

So worried.

So… in love.

With _him_ , for some unfathomable reason.

“But I’ll try not to. I’ll try to stay. Cause you’re worth staying for, Lassiepants. So fucking worth it. Worth more than anything. Worth _everything_.”

His mouth has found its way to the crook of Shawn’s neck and as the sentiment hits him, tears well up in his eyes. He hears what the psychic is saying, not just with his words or with his body but with his very heart and soul, and it wraps around his own like a nice warm blanket on a cold winter’s day.

Carlton is aware that the moisture on his face is from wave after wave of emotion crashing through him. Knows it’s from the intensity of the feeling building inside his belly. Knows that it’s all Spencer’s fault. But he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop himself from crying or stop his hips from pumping or stop the orgasm that rips through him as Shawn wraps his arms around him in the sweetest fucking embrace, his hands stroking circles into the small of Carlton’s back to calm him.

The psychic continues, words barely above a whisper as he finally answers Carlton’s question the way he wanted him to.

“You’re strong and smart and loyal and true, Lassie. You’re stubborn and sexy and _so_ fucking weird. But you’re tenacious, too. Funny, even though you don’t mean to be. The biggest dork I’ve ever met, but also a jerk with a heart of gold. You hate people but are willing to do almost anything to protect or avenge them. Treat everyone like they should be better. But you also challenge me. Hold me accountable for my shit and make me want to _be_ better. Nobody’s ever done that before. Probably never will again. But you… you’re different.”

He inhales. Deeply. Almost as if he expects Carlton to interrupt him.

When he doesn’t, Shawn continues, Carlton’s fingers gently curled against his ribcage.

“You… you make me feel safe. Even when you’re threatening to shoot me, I know that I’m safe with you. That you’d never really hurt me. Never let me get hurt. You threaten me all the time, but I had to force you to punch me the other day. Do you know what that says? How much that means? And don’t ask me why I’m turned on by your misanthropy or ridiculously large gun collection, Lassie, because I don’t know. I just am. You float my boat so fucking hard, I want you to captain it forever. Just climb aboard the SS Spenstar and we’ll sail off into the sunset together.”

Half of what Shawn just said is ridiculous, but it’s also true; Carlton can’t deny that.

He’s been seen.

He finally has his answer and it’s nothing like he expected, and he’s overcome with an overwhelming, ground-shaking sensation of finally being _seen._

It leaves him feeling spent and invigorated.

Alive and tremor-wracked.

He feels hollow.

Ashamed.

Confused.

So very confused.

Because how can Shawn want him?

Need him?

How can Shawn _love_ him, after everything he’s put him through?

He knows it’s true, but…

“It’s okay, Carlytown. It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s never been okay, and Carlton has no idea how Spencer thinks it will be, so he asks in between kisses, devouring the man’s mouth like it’s the air he needs to breathe. Shawn gives back just as good as he gets, biting Carlton’s lips and licking into his mouth and messing up his salt and pepper hair, fingers raking through the length that’s just grown back to the way they both like it. 

“Because,” he says and Carlton stills. Face buried in the hollow of Shawn’s throat, he’s shocked by the heat radiating off the man and is hit with another wash of shame. Soothes the mark he left with his tongue and listens to Spencer’s breath slow though his pulse still races – his lover chasing a body high he’s not being given. 

Carlton can feel it in his touch and knows that his own pulse races too.

Laying atop the man, he’s more discombobulated than he’s ever been – unsure of how he’s gotten everything he’s ever wanted and wound up mad _._

Wound up _sad_.

It just doesn’t make sense.

But then again, when does anything concerning Spencer ever?

“Because,” Shawn tries again, turning his head to look down at Carlton.

His fingers slide from the cop’s hair to his chin and he tilts Carlton’s face up to kiss him and Carlton is surprised because it’s gentle – the opposite of what he expected. Better than he expected. He’s laying on Shawn’s chest and still buried deep in his ass and Shawn’s lips caress his own like he’s sure they will shatter if he uses too much pressure.

He kisses Carlton like it’s the first time and for the first time ever, Carlton experiences more than unadulterated lust.

He feels tentativeness.

Un-surety.

Love.

He feels _loved._

His heart is beating like it never has before, the dried up-muscle unexpectedly resuscitated, no longer a hunk of jerky in his chest but a wellspring of joy and wonder. Bit by bit, each pump of blood through his body brings him back to life and while his conflicting emotions are causing too much of a mess for him to grasp onto anything of sense, his heart feels full.

Fuller than full.

And if he focuses on that and not his cognitive dissonance, life is downright magnificent. 

“Because I love you, stupid. And you love me. And nothing needs to change between us if you don’t want it to.”

But everything has already changed, and he doesn’t understand what Spencer means, and it must show in his face because Spencer is peppering it with kisses as he strokes Carlton’s back.

And maybe Shawn _is_ a psychic because he’s reading Carlton’s mind when he says –

“I want it to, though. And I think you want it, too, don’t you?”

Carlton looks up at that. Wet blue eyes, the color and consistency of the ocean after a storm, catch Spencer’s shining chameleon ones. A shade for every occasion, they’re back to being hazel now and Carlton nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. But Shawn must feel it against his chest because he continues, pulling the thoughts straight from Carlton’s head.

“I can’t go back after this, Lassie. But I… we can’t go forward either right now, can we? You’re too wrapped up in my one lie to believe I’d never hurt you.”

The truth of the matter soaks up the silence between them.

Carlton’s stopped breathing but he can’t remember when and he wonders if anything would be different if he really knew the truth. But it doesn’t matter. Having done nothing but antagonize Spencer about it since they met, he knows he’ll never convince him that it’s worth it - that _he’s_ worth it.

Spencer has half-way admitted it as is.

Has said that he’s lied, though he’s only alluded to what.

Still, it’s not enough.

Half-way there is still only half-way committed, and Carlton almost wishes that it didn’t need to be this way. That _he_ didn’t need to be this way. That he could just take what he’s been given and use it to create a life that would make him happy.

Make them _both_ happy.

But he’s not built that way and Shawn knows it.

Shawn knows it and still, as badly as he seems to want this, Carlton is convinced there’s no way he’s going ever to spill – never admit to not being psychic.

Why would he, with so much at stake?

Carlton knows Spencer’s not a soothsayer, but the thing is, Carlton is _also_ not preternaturally gifted. Because after a few moments laying of there, bodies melded together as he slowly softens inside the man, Shawn speaks again. And there’s just no way he could have seen it coming.

“Okay,” Shawn begins. “You want honesty? I can do that. Lassie, I’m…”

Every atom in the Head Detective’s body stops what it is doing as Spencer’s hazy gaze cuts through him. He’s still not breathing and now his heart has ceased beating and there’s no reason for it – Shawn’s not even asking for anything, not making sure he won’t get arrested or kicked out or shot – but it seems the psychic is willing to bare all, after all.

 _What does it mean?_ Carlton wonders.

What does it mean that Shawn is willing to risk it all to give him something he needs?

Risk everything with no promise that his own future is safe?

Carlton hasn’t agreed to being together - still has no idea how it would work if he does - but _God_ … if what he thinks is happening really is, he has no reason to deny himself anymore, does he?

Spencer may be a giant man-child, but this…

This right here proves he’s a grown-up where it counts.

That as playful and juvenile and downright delinquent as he can be sometimes, he’s willing to put a partner first.

That he is willing to put _Carlton_ first.

Put Carlton _’s_ feelings above his own survival.

_Sweet Lady Justice._

It may be the most powerful, most overwhelming thing he’s ever experienced, leaving even Spencer’s earlier declaration in the dust.

Because it’s one thing to be honest about feelings, he knows.

Another entirely to bare your soul about who you are.

Spencer could be fired. Arrested. Thrown out of Santa Barbara and treated like a pariah. Yet he speaks, Carlton’s need for answers - their mutual but not quite spoken desire for some form of life together - meaning more than all of that combined.

Carlton just…

He just…

Can’t.

Can’t comprehend it and can’t seem fathom it even though he’s wanted it, waited for it for so long.

After all these years, it’s finally happening.

_Finally._

He never expected it.

Doesn’t know how to deal with it.

Is afraid to even react to it, worried that whatever he does will fuck it all up.

Because _this_ is the trust that’s been lacking.

_This._

Carlton’s heart swells and his head tilts and as Shawn continues to speak, a whoosh of air slides down his throat and into his chest, leaving him light-headed due to how long it took to get there.

His pulse is pounding. The racing it was doing before seems like slow motion in comparison, and the anticipation may kill him if Shawn doesn’t get the words out fast.

Mind you, the words themselves may also be what does him in.

“… really a mutant cyborg sent from the future to stop the upcoming apocalypse,” Shawn says.

He beams and Carlton’s head hangs, just a little.

He’s still wrapped around the man, still feels his heartbeat beneath the slightly stubbled skin of his cheek, but now he’s yelling at himself for ever thinking that Shawn could be serious. That Spencer would ever bare his soul to _him._ That he could ever mean enough for him to –

“I’m not psychic, Lassie.”

It’s a whisper, but it’s a whisper that cuts through it all.

Cuts through _everything_.

Slices the ties that bind them and forges them all anew.

Carlton’s eyes flit up to Spencer’s face and the man’s no longer smiling. His eyes are full of worry and they’re tinged with a hint of doubt but mostly Carlton sees love, the need to connect clearly overpowering his fear of what comes next. And there _is_ fear. It’s clear that he’s terrified. And in typical terrified Shawn fashion, his nerves kick in and he begins to ramble.

Carlton finds it equally aggravating and adorable.

“I’m not psychic,” Shawn says, taking another deep breath, this one shakier than the last. “I never would have even said I was, but you backed me into a corner. And at first, I just wanted a paycheck. And also payback.”

Spencer’s eyes dart away at that, almost like he’s ashamed to admit it. But a second later they’re locked back on Carlton’s, like he’s hoping looking at him will help him understand. Like he thinks the connection between them will get stronger the longer he does.

Carlton blinks but allows it, searching Shawn’s gaze and finding only honesty and need – a need for him and a need to explain wrapped together in shining, shimmering hazel.

“But then I realized how much I could actually help people with my superpowers and _then_ I realized how pretending to be a psychic would also get me close to you,” Shawn continues, “and don’t you dare think for a second I don’t question why the hell past-me wanted to do that when you were the asshole who tried to arrest me in the first place - though a super sexy asshole with your stretched-out long legs and tasty trim waist and strapping strong shoulders and glacier-cool eyes I’ve wanted to cannonball into since the moment you glared at me from across the ta–“

Carlton silences Shawn's seemingly endless stream of consciousness with a kiss, his body sliding up to cover Spencer’s as he slots their mouths together. It’s not a passionate kiss, but it is passion-filled. Heart-felt. Heated. It’s an _I’m sorry_ and a _Thank you_ and a _Please shut up_ all rolled into one. A promise, stronger than words can say. And Shawn returns it in kind, Carlton hearing _I love you_ and _I wish it didn’t take so long_ and _Please stay with me forever_ with every swipe of his tongue.

After a minute - one long drawn out minute that lasts a million magical years – the two break apart.

Carlton’s head is swimming.

His voice is thick like honey.

Still, he works up his courage and tells Shawn -

“I love you.”

He never could have imagined saying it.

Has never even really admitted it to himself prior to tonight, though a deep dark part of him has always known it to be true.

But it’s out there now. Was out there before he’d even opened his mouth because, perceptive son of a bitch that he is, Spencer knew.

“I know,” Shawn whispers in return.

That stupid grin is back on his face and Carlton doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss or kick it off him, but he loves it all the same.

It feels like it should be there.

It feels like coming home.

“It’s nice to finally hear, though.”

Carlton can’t explain why it _did_ take so long. Why it took five years of percolating passion for someone to finally make a move. What it was about this moment that drove Spencer to it. But it also doesn’t matter anymore. Not when he has no idea what tomorrow will bring.

Doesn’t know if tonight changes nothing at all or absolutely everything…

That’s a lie; there’s no way this _doesn’t_ change everything.

It already has.

It’s shaken his world, in more ways than one.

Turned his perspective upside down, shooting a streak of vibrancy into his life far more intense than ever before.

Makes him feel alive.

Like he’s doing more than just trying to survive.

Somehow, Carlton is both younger and older than he’s ever been. His head hurts, his back throbs, and yet his heart has grown exponentially in size, a warm glow suffusing it.

Suffusing _him_.

Shawn trusts him. With his everything.

It’s only fair he does the same.

“Shut it, Spencer,” he says gruffly as he nuzzles into the man’s sparse chest hair.

Fingers trail down the flat of Carlton’s back and Shawn smiles, somehow aware the phrase is meant as affection. The sensation tickles a little and the cop shifts, the men still glued together.

He hears Shawn’s breath catch in his throat. Watches as he winces. Wiggles. Tries to get traction on something that’s not going to happen. And yet…

Carlton doesn’t know how, but he’s half hard again.

It shouldn’t be possible, not at his age, not so soon after. But Spencer’s honesty – Spencer splaying himself open, even after all that – is making his blood surge. He’s half hard and Shawn clearly feels it and he tilts his head down to capture Carlton’s lips with his own, mumbling against his mouth –

“Lassie. I love you. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

Wordlessly, the detective nods, throat too thick with emotion for speech.

He does. And it’s something that he never thought would happen. Something he never thought he’d admit to even if it did. Yet here he is, telling him freely, words and action comingling to bring him into a better existence.

Bring them both into a better existence.

Shawn wants him. Needs him. And though incredibly daunting, the feeling is very much mutual.

And surreal.

 _So_ fucking surreal.

“Fuck me again.”

The breath flies from Carlton’s chest at the request. He’s been kicked square in the sternum by that pony he wanted but never got as a child and before he can even comprehend what Spencer’s said, the man continues, each word sending another spark of heat into his groin.

“Take the condom off and fuck me again, Lassie. I want to feel it, feel you. Need to feel you. Need you to make me come so hard I see stars.”

Carlton doesn’t know what to say to that. What he _should_ say. What would be safe or make sense or if he should even agree. So he starts with Shawn’s name but doesn’t get far, Spencer interrupting him almost as soon as he exhales.

“I’m good. And I know you’re good. Know you wouldn’t – know you aren’t -“ he says, and Carlton stops him, the pressure of his mouth on Shawn’s not strong but insistent as he pulls out to do exactly as asked.

Why not, after all? If Shawn can be honest about that one thing, Carlton has to believe he’d be honest about _everything_. Spencer has given him everything he asked for and then some, and Carlton still has to make it right. Still needs to make it good for him, having achieved his own orgasm and left Shawn wanting.

Waiting.

There are other ways to get him off, of course. Plenty of other ways. But Shawn doesn’t want any of that. He wants Carlton, real and raw, and Carlton doesn’t know any better way to cement the change in their relationship than to acquiesce.

So, with wobbly knees, he stands.

Stretches his back.

Goes to make a move – the first step in giving Shawn what he desires.

Shawn tries to tug him back down, but Carlton pushes his hand away, pulling the condom off with a slight grimace as he looks at down at his lover. Boyfriend. Whatever. Skirting around the room for a place to dispose of the evidence, his eyes flick back up for a second, and as he links their fingers together, Spencer grins like a cat flat on his back beneath him.

“Lassie –“ he starts and Carlton shushes him, a tender look in his eyes.

Who would have ever thought he’d look at Shawn that way?

Have the _right_ to look at Shawn that way?

The psychic is sweaty and so is he and his thoughts are fuzzy, probably from what little blood is left in his brain rushing to his dick. But Carlton doesn’t care. He sees the marks forming on the man’s body and looks down to see a few forming on his own and smiles back, cognizance slipping stealthily from his fingertips.

The last of it leaves him as he strokes the side of Spencer’s face, digits lingering on the remnants of the bruise he’d put there fifty-six hours prior.

He _hadn’t_ wanted to punch him. Shawn was right in that he’d had to be convinced. But at the same time, he hadn’t wanted the man to go undercover in the first place. Not because he didn’t believe in Shawn – Carlton’s faith in him was just another thing that had resentfully developed throughout the years – but because he’d heard too many stories of Tommy Nix’s crew and didn’t know what effect interacting with them would have on him.

Nix lived life in the fast lane, quite literally. He was attractive and untroubled and shared so many of the same ideals as Shawn that Carlton’s a little surprised the convict hadn’t swayed him to the dark side. And though the thought causes him great discomfort, as it is, he’s sure Spencer had developed a crush on the criminal.

Even worse, from what Guster off-handedly mentioned after their final encounter, the feeling wasn’t a one-way street.

Nix had asked Shawn to join him.

And for a second, it seemed that he had considered.

Carlton wonders what it was that made him decide to stay.

What it was that made him choose a lonely life in Santa Barbara over living the kamikaze dream with a man that looked like a GQ model and thought the same way.

Whether or not Shawn’s not-so-hidden affection for him has anything to do with it.

Whether or not it’s part of the reason he showed up tonight.

Maybe _this_ is him being willing to pay the ultimate price.

Maybe _Carlton_ is what Spencer needed.

Carlton is what Spencer _needs._

 _Garbage,_ the cop thinks, snapping out of his reverie. _Garbage. In the bathroom. Where there is some lube… somewhere._

Carlton shakes his head to clear his thoughts and takes a step away from the couch. It’s a single step - a half step, really - and before his foot even leaves the floor, Shawn drops his arm and asks where he is going, voice laden with worry.

It’s unexpected, the fear Carlton hears. Almost sweet, with how much he clearly seems to care. Disconcerting, that he’s just as nervous as Carlton is.

Just as unprepared for this as Carlton is.

Shawn’s cocksure and carefree. He only ever expresses carefully considered emotion when he expresses any at all, usually too tied up in the trappings of his trivial nonsense to make much sense, if any, to the seasoned cop. And this… this is the first time - maybe second, if he includes their original encounter with Yang - that Carlton has realized there is so much more inside the man than he shows.

The thought floors him.

Shawn is just as much at war with himself as he is.

His assuredness may be more out of necessity than it is a real feeling.

Spencer needs just as much affection and affirmation as he does.

So Carlton ties off the condom and tells him.

Tells him that he loves him, and that he’ll be right back.

That he has nothing to worry about and they’ll find a way to make it work.

That he has no plans to keep this secret and nearly cries when he sees tears form in the corner of Shawn’s eyes before the man blinks them away, the soft smile on his face replacing his doubt.

Carlton tells him these things because he knows better.

Deserves better.

They both do.

He’s not a man of many words and doesn’t know from whence these one came but he does know that they were the right ones to say. And he means them. Truly, he does. Their future is unfolding and though it’s sure to be a bumpy road, for the first time in a long time he feels that he’s found something that may be worth it.

Some _one_ who is worth it.

Carlton Lassiter’s acclaimed cold demeanor is melting.

And it’s astounding.

He’s in the bathroom about a minute when it hits him. Like a dumpster truck full of bricks speeding down a hill with no breaks, it slams into Carlton so hard he loses all feeling in his legs. Loses the ability to breathe. He sits on the edge of the toilet seat, head between his emotion-weakened knees as he struggles for air, the enormity of his decision dragging him out to sea.

He’s not alone anymore.

Somebody loves him. Somebody cares.

And though he’ll probably regret it, Spencer guaranteed to drive him crazy, he’s got someone in his corner. Somebody to always be there.

Carlton had given up. Closed himself off. Convinced himself that love was just a waste of his time. But somehow, with a few equally well and ill-chosen words, Shawn made him realize that it wasn’t.

 _Isn’t_.

That he’s always had Carlton’s back and always will.

That he’s horny for him, both body and brain.

That he likes him. For his _personality_.

Carlton stands. Shakes his head. Looks at himself in the mirror and sees something far different than has ever been reflected back at him before.

He sees himself happy.

Hopeful.

Content.

It’s astonishing, the change it makes. The years it shaves off. And he’s elated to see the mask he wore – that he thought he _had_ to wear – no longer on his heart but discarded somewhere between his couch and front door.

Carlton also sees that his hard-on is flagging, the lack of attention making it feel ignored.

While he doesn’t remember putting it there, the condom is in the wastebasket. He knows he doesn’t have more of those – not that he needs one, with what Shawn has asked of him – but he _is_ fairly certain there’s a tube of lube stashed in one of the drawers, and that is something necessary for round two. So he pretends Spencer’s hand is his own and strokes himself a few times to bring his dick back past half-mast, rummaging around for the little bottle of Liquid Silk he knows is in there somewhere.

Shawn calls out from the living room and Carlton rolls his eyes at his obnoxiousness, knowing full well that he’s not going to finish himself off no matter how loudly he threatens to. But the snark still spurs him to move his bare ass and he finally unearths what he’s been looking for, the bottle half-empty, slightly dusty, and by the date stamped on the side of it, set to expire within days.

Well, if that isn’t just perfect timing. And also something he’s sure will be taken as a challenge.

His imagination starts to crank out kinky scenarios, lecherous thoughts flitting through the cop’s mind. But Shawn is waiting for him with a seemingly insatiable sex drive and Carlton’s got a bottle of lube that still needs to be used, so he stops thinking of the things they can do and moves to do them instead, feet faltering when he enters the living room to find it empty.

Shawn’s not on the couch, and Carlton’s heart sinks.

He’s not in the kitchen or in the hallway. His clothes are still strewn about the place so Carlton knows he’s still there, but he panics anyway, his anxiety ratcheting through the roof. Until he hears the springs of his queen-sized bed bounce beneath the weight of what can only be a fake-psychic-shaped body, that is, Spencer’s voice calling out at him from his own damn bedroom.

“Lassie, if you’re going to take forever, can you please send your dick on in? It misses me. I can hear it crying out from here.”

Padding into the room, Carlton looks at Shawn spread out on his bed like he belongs there and his heart jumps out of his chest, beating a rhythm he could move to were he more of a dancing man.  Something fast, like a salsa or samba. An intrinsically sexy lambada perhaps, considering the seductive nature of both it and the man sprawled out on his bedspread, begging to be molested. But the second he sees Shawn lounging on his pillows with his hand on his cock, eyes closed, and lip caught between his teeth as he strokes himself to full attention, Carlton’s own dick floods with blood, turning into a full-blown raging erection.

Oh dear God, how he wants that to be his hand.

 _His_ mouth.

Wants to be the one giving Shawn pleasure.

Bringing him that joy.

It’s like a blinding light that sparks behind his eyeballs, burnt-phosphorous bright.

And, frozen in place and enthralled by the sight, it takes Carlton a remarkably long time to realize that the only thing stopping him is _him_. 

“On your knees,” he says as he steps toward the bed, breaking free from the pornographic vision before him.

Carlton knows he sounds like superiority and sex and, while it wasn’t his intent, the tone of his voice is exactly what’s needed; Shawn stops rolling around like a kitten high on nip and grins at him, instantly obeying.

Hands gripping Carlton’s pillow, he slides across the blanket. And just when Carlton thinks he’s going to bury his face in it, he tucks the cushion under his hips instead, legs spread wide to give him easy access.

His pillow is going to smell like Shawn for days – the scent of citrus and CK One, fresh pineapple and even fresher sin. And Carlton knows he’s going to wake up tomorrow (and the day after that, and maybe even the day after _that_ ) to the essence of Spencer lingering, long after the man is gone.

If he leaves at all.

The thought tugs at his heartstrings.

Sends a rush of blood to his groin.

Makes him a little light-headed.

So Carlton runs his hand along Spencer’s back to distract himself, the still-naked man shivering at his touch.

It’s not because of the temperature, he knows.

With how Shawn looks at him - head turned over his shoulder, lust-darkened gaze shot his way - Carlton knows that it’s _him._

 _He’s_ the thing affecting Shawn this way.

Shawn wants him. Needs him. Burns for him, yearns for him.

So he gives the man what he desires.

The brush of Carlton’s fingers across each knob of Shawn’s spine is gentle. Almost reverential. And he takes his time caressing Spencer’s sun-kissed skin, mapping out every place he’s always wanted to visit with the soft pads of his fingertips.

He feels every inch of muscle.

Every ounce of body fat.

The fine hairs coating the man’s firm body.

And he loves every bit of it.

Shawn is gorgeous and he knows it. Brags about it, even. But he’ll never be on the cover of a magazine because, though his ego will force his denial, he’s not that type of beautiful. His nose is a bit big for his face and his charm is half of what makes him attractive in the first place and though he’s gained some weight since Carlton first met him, Carlton thinks it suits him.

Fills him out in all the right ways.

Makes him look more like the man he is and less like the boy he pretends to be.

It may not be to other’s tastes, but Carlton loves it. Loves Shawn as he is. Wants to put his mouth all over him, trail wet kisses across what he can now freely admit is his.

Spencer belongs to somebody.

Spencer belongs to _him._

He doesn’t need to say it because Shawn already did, in far more ways than one. And to Carlton, that makes him all the more enjoyable to look at.

Even more enjoyable to touch.

So touch, he does.  

Carlton knows that Shawn is tender. Can see it in the way he moves. By the bruises on his body. Senses it in the heat radiating off his skin.

His fingers head south, and he can feel it in the puffiness of Spencer’s harshly used hole as he passes it by to play with his balls, thumb stroking the soft and slightly damp hair he finds there.

It’s his fault.

He knows that, too.

That Shawn is probably hurting, oversensitive and sore.

But still, he’s asked Carlton - _told_ Carlton - that he needed him for more. That he _needs_ more. He’s given him everything he required and took all his anger in return. Came to him with the truth and while he didn’t get spurned, what he did get was used and abused for his trouble. And though Spencer never once told him to stop, the cop wants to make it up to him.

Wants to make him feel like he’s high. Like he’s flying. Like he can soar.

Wants to give him absolutely everything, and then a little bit more.

His knees press into the mattress as he joins Shawn on the bed. The soft satin of his sheets crinkle under his weight and Shawn whimpers in anticipation, a sound so little it barely leaves his throat.

Carlton relishes it.

Revels in it.

Hopes to hear it again and reaches a lube-slicked hand between Shawn’s legs, finally giving his cock the attention it’s been lacking all night long.

But as much as Shawn seems to like it, seems to enjoy the way Carlton’s fist curls around him and the pressure that it gives, Carlton knows it’s not enough.

Knows he can do better.

Knows Shawn _deserves_ better.

“Spencer, you said you trust me. Did you mean it?”

He watches the light reflect off the sheen on the man’s back, Shawn rocking back and forth with the motion of Carlton’s hand.

He knows he does, but he needs to hear it.

Not for himself but for what he’s about to do.

What he wants to do.

What he hopes Spencer wants him to do _to_ him.

 _For_ him _._

“Yes. I trust you. Do it,” he mutters into the crook of his elbow. Moans, just loud enough for the detective to hear. “Do whatever you want; cart blank. I’m all yours.”

Carlton’s not going to argue that it’s carte blanche.

Not going to allow Shawn to tell him he’s heard it both ways.

He just takes the permission and rubs his palm against the crown of Spencer’s cock.

Leans forward to soothe the well-used muscle of his anus with long slow licks.

Taunts and teases and loves and pleases, the flat of his tongue swiping with blatant intent.

An unholy sound of need burbles up from somewhere deep inside the psychic and, body vibrating beneath Carlton’s tongue, he shudders.

As he pulls away, Carlton can see him bite down against the soft skin of his forearm and he smiles, tracing circles into the flesh of Shawn’s waist. Asks him if he likes it, his fingers tightening their grip. He knows the answer will be affirmative, but he wants to hear it anyway.

Shawn bucks into his hand in response, cock hot and throbbing against Carlton’s closed fist.

“Fuck, yes.”

His breath is heavy and ragged. Sultry and raw. And Carlton loves the way it scrapes across his skin. Settles into his ears and seems to burrow deep within.

It takes root and sprouts something he didn’t know he was lacking.

Something he wasn’t aware he needed.

But need it, he does - he needs Shawn like this.

Needs to _hear_ Shawn like this.

To _see_ Shawn like this.

Make Shawn _be_ just like this.

It’s nirvana.

Carlton can feel it on his face and hear it in the sound of Spencer’s voice and he knows, just _knows_ , this will be an act they revisit so many times.

So _very_ many times.

Because now there _is_ time.

Now there’s a tomorrow.

Now that they’re together.

They’re actually _together;_ this is only a one-night stand if he wants it to be.

And he doesn’t. He would rather eat his gun than lose this feeling, this companionship.

Shawn isn’t Ursula. He doesn’t make him feel him used or cheap.

He’s not Victoria. Doesn’t make him feel like he’s striving for something that he’ll never be.

He’s not Lucinda, and he’s sure as hell not going to be kept a dirty little secret.

Instead, he’s bringing Carlton the closest he’s ever felt to pure joy. And Carlton wants that every damn day now that he knows it’s something that can be achieved.

The greys will be worth it; he’s sure of it.

“Please, Lassie, more. Please, yes. Ohhhh… mmmffff. Fuck me, _yesssssss_.”

Shawn’s a greedy little bugger. A demanding little asshole. But like everything else, it’s something about him that Carlton enjoys. And in this situation, he can’t even say begrudgingly.

It’s a boost to the ego that Spencer wants more. 

 _Needs_ more.

So Carlton gives it to him, taking his time to trace the slightly salty ring with his tongue.

The hole is hot to the touch – bitter and angry and pink - so he purses his lips and blows a soft gust of air, aiming for a gentle gasp of coolness against fuck-fevered skin.

It works.

Shawn’s covered in gooseflesh. Almost instantly, the fine hairs on his body stand on end and Carlton continues, his delightfully calculated ministrations doing exactly as he’d hoped.

He tapers his tongue and Shawn moans.

Flicks it and Shawn groans.

Slides the tip of the muscle just barely inside and the noise that Shawn makes sounds like he’s dying.

So Carlton draws it away.

Blows across his sensitive opening and then does it all again.

And again.

And again.

Spencer’s loving every second of it. The proof’s not in the pudding but in how, after only a matter of seconds, he’s putty in Carlton’s hands. How obscenely tangled sounds rise in his chest and spill over his lips, every syllable as passionate as Carlton’s dark and dirty kiss, Shawn’s voice husky and whorish, hoarse and wanton with need.

“Ohh god, yes, Lassie. Fuck. Yes, like that. Just like that, please. _Please._ ”

Lips pressed together, Carlton continues, applying wet and messy suction against soft trembling skin.

Shawn is losing his ever-loving mind beneath him and it’s everything Carlton has always imagined. _More_ than he imagined. The real thing has him practically palpitating - has set his blood ablaze. It’s forced his walls to come crumbling down, turning to dust as they tumble to the ground. And Carlton savors every moment – _loses_ himself in the moment – as he takes his time torturing the usually-snarky charlatan with his devilish tongue.

Torturing _his_ snarky charlatan with his devilish tongue.

Carlton doesn’t know why Spencer’s spent so many years lying. He’s sure part of the reason was explained to him earlier, the rush of words that spilled from Shawn’s mouth as hurried and harried as they were honest and true. And though he wants to know the reason, even more than the reason, he wants to know the _how_ of it. Wants to know what magic it is that fuels the man. See the wonder behind the wunderkind.

Figure out what the hell he meant by ‘super-powers’.

He’s even sure he could get Shawn to tell him, just by the wicked way he’s moving his mouth.

By the way he’s stroking his hand.

How he’s twisting his wrist.

He could torment the man, he knows. Bring him close to the edge, dangle and then draw him back again. Tongue at him until he cries tears of joy and ecstasy, exaltation and frustration forcing him to tell Carlton of his mysterious ways.

But he can’t.

 _Won’t_.

Shawn will tell him in due time; he trusts this.

Trusts _him._

And it’s something won’t betray for anything.

Instead, Carlton opens his mouth.

Slides his tongue out from between his teeth.

Circles Spencer’s flesh.

Repeatedly.

Over and over and over again, until the conman relaxes enough to let the cop in.

And when he does, when he finally breaches that dusky puckered hole, Shawn sings a song of euphoria, lust-strained voice ringing out against the rafters in a litany of praise.

He’s proud of himself, having reduced Spencer to a mess of a man overcome by need.

Shawn is pure nothingness - a bundle of nerves with no way to express how he feels except the vocal acrobatics he enthusiastically performs. And though Carlton can’t see his face, can’t read his mind, he knows this.

Knows it by the breath that he takes and the way his body quakes.

His sigh of relief.

The way his cock weeps, pre-come slicking the unending movement of Carlton’s fist against his flesh.

But he’s not done.

He’s nowhere _near_ done.

Carlton wants to give his lover more.

 _Needs_ to give his lover more.

He spears into Spencer with that slippery muscle and feels the man tense around his tongue. Hears him cry out, loud and incomprehensible noise falling from his mouth, inarticulate sounds and easy-to-understand grunts echoing in his ears as he fucks into him.

As he _tastes_ him.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Lazily _._

It’s hot. And it’s sloppy. And Carlton almost can’t believe his face is buried in Spencer’s ass, but it is.

 _He_ is.

Shawn’s loving it, pushing back against him, his body begging for more. And _Carlton’s_ loving it, loving Shawn’s reaction and how he’s finally making the man come undone - playing him like a fiddle like he’s been playing Carlton for years. He can’t believe how much he loves the way Spencer’s panting and how he’s keening and the sound of him screaming for Carlton to fuck him, fingers digging furrows into the blue of the detective’s sheets.

Shawn’s begging.

He’s begging for Carlton to split him wide open, for him to sink deep inside. He says he needs to feel Carlton in him; needs it to feel alive. Wants to be spitted by Carlton’s cock more than he’s ever wanted anything in this life.

He wants it. More than he wants to have Billy Zane’s hair.

Needs it. More than he’s ever dreamed of Val Kilmer being there.

It’s Shawn-speak; nonsense.

But it’s also the most flattering nonsense Carlton’s ever heard.

And while he’s pretty much promised to stick his dick back inside the man, an act he will absolutely and resolutely perform, it’s in the moment of Spencer pleading for the feeling of Carlton pressed against his prostate that he realizes in order to give him what he needs, he needs to let Shawn _take_.

“Spencer.”

He drops a kiss at the tip of the man’s tailbone. Whispers against the base of Shawn’s spine.

“Spencer, listen…”

His fingers release the man from his flesh and bone prison and Carlton can see his cock twitch now it’s been freed from all friction and has nothing to stimulate it but the feeling of air. And Shawn whimpers and whines, but Carlton doesn’t care. Instead, he gently rolls the man over and says –

“Listen. _Shawn._ Listen to me.”

Shawn’s eyes are glazed over, pupils blown so big and black Carlton can only see a hint of color. His face is flush, his chest heaving, and Carlton has to say it twice more before he’s sure the man really hears, his brow both creased with confusion and beaded with sweat.

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

Once it registers, Spencer stutters, opening his mouth to protest.

Carlton stops him with a finger pressed against his lips.

“But,” he says slowly, enunciating every word. “I _am_ going to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Shawn’s eyes widen at that, just slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s just heard. And honestly, Carlton’s not surprised by that, the words coming out of his mouth ones he doesn’t tend to use.

Carlton’s not a dirty talker. Never has been. Never had a reason _to_ be, every partner he’s had prior to the one in his bed right now failing to ignite the levels of passion he currently feels.

Failing to make him want to let go, be free.

Failing to make him want to just _be._

There were conditions before. Expectations. And his failure to live up to them resulted in punishment, usually in the form of verbal castigation. It certainly didn’t result in the fervent fighting that he and Shawn were known for, the kind of fighting that led them here. And it _never_ ended in the kind of mind-blowing sex he was experiencing now.

When he failed his women, he was a failure.

But Shawn makes him realize that he wasn’t in the wrong.

Makes him realize that _they_ were, for trying to force him to be someone he wasn’t.  Someone he could never be.

When he fails Shawn – when he fails _now_ – it won’t result on hell on earth.

He will be challenged.

Mocked, but challenged.

And he knows that’s what will spur him to be better. Not just better, but a better version of _himself._

Carlton Lassiter to the Nth degree.

Something that, without his realizing it, has been happening for years – the case with the damn shark the prior spring proof of that.

Spencer just brings out the best in him, it seems.

 “I’m not going to fuck you,” Carlton says, breath stuck in his chest as he voices his decision. He looks at Shawn with amazement in his eyes, his epiphany making him somehow love the man more. “You’re going to ride me.”

Shawn looks like he’s been hit in the face with a two-by-four. Like he’s been offered a million dollars and the key to a smoothie store and doesn’t know what the hell for. Like all of his dreams are simultaneously coming true and he feels a little nauseous; overwhelmed, like he might puke.

He doesn’t, of course. Charm radiating off him so strong it gives Carlton chills, he just smiles that rogue smile of his and rolls up onto his knees. Crawls towards him and runs his fingers through his chest hair, his grin unwavering, stretched from ear to ear.

Carlton’s tickled pink that he’s what’s making Shawn this happy. Bringing him such joy. And while the man may be gob smacked, he’s also not letting that stop him; soon Carlton’s the one being pressed into the mattress, Spencer licking long swathes of affection up his neck now he’s been given permission to do as he likes.

What he likes, apparently, is touching the cop all over.

His body is flush against Carlton’s, legs slotted in between the detective’s own, belly pressed against belly as their erections rub together. And, hands wandering, he bites at the tender flesh connecting Carlton’s jaw and ear, and then Carlton goes to protest but decides he doesn’t care.

Let Shawn mark him.

Let Shawn mark him all he wants.

Let everyone know that he’s in love.

That he doesn’t give a fuck about what people think.

Carlton has spent forty-two years letting other’s opinions dictate who he is.

He’s done with it.

He may be an asshole, but he’s _Shawn’s_ asshole. And for some reason, the psychic _(not-psychic)_ likes him that way. Likes the personality he’s concocted for use every single day. Likes the man beneath the jack-ass he acts like to scare people away.

He’s the only person in God knows how long who’s seen Carlton for who he really is.

And instead of running in the other direction - an act so Shawn Spencer, it should be named after him – he came closer. Dug deeper. Saw Carlton’s fears, cut through them, balled them up and tossed them in the trash. Then he set the fucking bin on fire.

Spencer noticed.

Noticed who Carlton is.

Who he was.

Who he _wants to be._

He noticed that Carlton wanted him,

_(wants him)_

needed him,

_(needs him)_

almost as much as he needs to breathe.

And like a hit of pure oxygen to the system, it makes Carlton dizzy. Shawn did everything he feared he would and somehow, it’s okay. The universe has not gone up in flames. It has not turned on its end. Instead, it’s been broken open. _He’s_ been broken open, the shackles of his past cast off with one act of honesty so brave it makes his heart hurt.

Shawn’s thighs are strong on either side of him. The man has shifted atop Carlton, one hand pulling the cop’s neck forward to claim his mouth with a kiss – a lightning striking, window smashing, cymbal crashing kind of kiss; one that leaves him light-headed and shaking and aching for more, every moment he spends without his lips on Shawn’s a moment he considers wasted. And as Carlton focuses on the slip and slide of their tongues tangling together and the way that Shawn’s fingers scratch at the nape of his neck as they part the short hairs there, he almost misses the fact that Spencer’s other hand is coated in a fine film of lube, wrapped around the base of him, and guiding him back in.

He’s been inside Shawn before, less than an hour ago. But this time it’s earth-shattering. Soul-searing. Like he’s picking up the pieces of the truth of Carlton Lassiter and gluing them back together.

Shaping him into something new, one touch at a time.

Shawn sinks down on him, _looks_ down _at_ him, and he’s beset by a feeling of emotion so strong his stomach clenches. His whole body tenses. But then his hands are skimming across Carlton’s pecs, tugging at his chest hair, caressing as decadently as hands can caress, and the cop is lost again, carried away on a wave of sensation so intense it lacks a name.

Shawn’s touch is a brand burnt into Carlton’s skin.

There’s madness in his eyes and Carlton loves it, loves him. Knows he must look much the same. The want. The need. The pleasure. The greed. He doesn’t have words for it. Doesn’t _need_ words for it. He just wants it to go on forever, Shawn riding him like he’s chasing the break of dawn after a night of city-shaking storms.

He’s worshipping him with his body. Worshipping him with his words. The consultant’s cunning mouth is moving a mile a minute and Carlton doesn’t know what he’s saying, doesn’t know what’s supposed to be heard. He only knows that it’s being said with love. And that’s enough.

More than enough.

The drag and slide of Shawn against him is almost too much.

The way he squeezes tight when their hips grind together.

The way his legs are trembling as he holds himself up, thrusting and bucking and sliding and gliding, somehow rocking both Carlton’s bed and his world.

The taste of his tongue as he leans down to plunder Carlton’s insatiable mouth with his own is sweet like honey. Like nectar from the gods. And, hands wandering along Shawn’s back, smoothing their way across the soft curves of fake psychic with as much affection as he can muster, Carlton wonders how the hell he spent so long not living his life this way.

How he ever thought what he was doing was living life at all.

How he never even realized it was possible to fly without the fall, that he could just flip gravity the middle finger and simply disappear, floating up; up and away, into the atmosphere.

It’s corny as hell, but Shawn fucking completes him.

Grounds him.

Astounds him.

He doesn’t fill the hole inside but makes him realize it was never there to begin with. That he’s been whole this whole time, just amputating the parts of himself he needed to breathe. Hiding the parts of himself that he needed to just _be_.

And as Shawn falls against him, body beginning to shake, he realizes that though he’d thought otherwise, it’s never too late. That with Spencer, he could have everything he ever wanted, if he’s willing to give him the same.

That this is what love is - a light shining through the darkness, illuminating all that he is. A whisper and a promise to cherish even his darkest of parts. Something that keeps him tethered to this earth and has him touching the sky; a shooting star burning bright, a spark of fire igniting his heart, a gasp of air when he feels about to drown.

It’s acceptance and freedom.

The kiss after a fight.

It’s tomorrow and forever.

It tells him it’s alright.

That _he’s_ alright.

Love - real love, the kind that Shawn is offering, has been offering from the start - is acceptance of whatever he brings. Whoever he is. It tells him that being true to himself is okay.

That being _Carlton Lassiter_ is okay.

He’s a lover and a fighter. A jerk and a protector. A weirdo and control freak. Awkward but awesome, his lack of social skills equal only to his ability in the field.

And it’s _okay_.

In fact, it’s more than that.

It necessary.

_Required._

He doesn’t need to impress anyone because the only person who needs to be impressed is already head over heels. All that matters now is how he feels, and how he feels is over the moon that Shawn is feeling _him_ \- arms intertwined, hands twisted together, lips connected as he feels Shawn’s heart beat rapid against his own. The man’s dick is rubbing across his belly and his chest is heaving and his hips are rocking back and forth, bringing them one step closer to heaven.

Except Carton’s already there.

He’s free of the weight that has held down his soul.

Has cast off the doubts that had him feeling so cold.

Realized that his letting Shawn in isn’t losing control.

It’s giving it up freely.

And the truth?

The thing he’s been hiding for what seems like forever?

As hard as it’s been…

The truth is no longer untold.


End file.
